


The Dread Pirate James Bond

by Anathema Device (notowned)



Series: Tales of London Town [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: BAMF Q, Hurt No Comfort, Is this a kissing book?, M/M, Post-SPECTRE, Tanner is not Princess Buttercup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:22:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6114933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notowned/pseuds/Anathema%20Device
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond's been gone a while.Time for a new one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dread Pirate James Bond

“Good morning, Q.” M indicated a chair to the left side of his desk. “Thanks for joining us.”

Q took a seat. “Good morning, sir. Bill,” he added, nodding to Tanner. He could plan on this meeting not taking long. Ms past and present didn’t waste time. Bill Tanner’s expression though...as if he had a joke he wasn’t allowed to tell. What was up?

Q couldn’t read M’s expression, but then M was paid to be inscrutable. He spoke into his intercom. “Eve, now if you would?”

“Sir?” Q asked. “What did you ask me here for?”

“Introductions, Q. Introductions. Ah, there you are.” M stood. Q swivelled in his seat. Eve Moneypenny, beautiful as always, and behind her, a man rivalling her in looks. Brown skin, brown eyes, glossy dark hair stylishly cut, and dressed in a charcoal suit that fitted him like a glove. _Ah, another new agent_.

M indicated the newcomer. “Q, meet our newest double-oh.”

The stranger extended his hand. “Quartermaster,” he said politely. Q shook his hand. Firm grip, gun calloused hands. Ex-military, undoubtedly, but which branch? Not Navy, he’d bet on that.

“Welcome to MI6. And you are?”

The stranger smiled, clean white teeth as sharp as his suit. “Bond. James Bond. 007.”

Q froze. Eve smirked, and when Q turned, Bill’s expression was now an open grin. “Is this a—”

“Joke? Not at all, Q,” M said, although his smile made a liar of him. “Tanner will brief you on the situation. For now, 007 will spend a week settling in, and you can arrange the usual equipment for him. Eve will bring him down to Q branch later on.”

“The pleasure will be all mine,” ‘Bond’ said, flashing his teeth again, and God, was that a bloody wink? Q’s gaydar, rusty as it was, went off like a smoke alarm.

“That’ll be all for now, Eve, Bond. Q, go with Tanner to his office if you would, please. Thank you, gentlemen.”

And they were dismissed. Q and Bill followed two delectable bottoms out of M’s office, and turned left into Bill’s. Bill locked the door behind them. “Sorry about that, Q. M has a bit of a funny sense of humour at times.”

“You thought it bloody funny too.” Q flounced into a chair and glared at his colleague. “Is Bond—the real Bond—dead?” He’d heard no report of it but since an agent who had resigned—albeit unconventionally and with the theft of a very valuable piece of equipment—was no longer of any importance to Q branch, Q supposed no one would have bothered to tell him.

“Not as far as we know. But it’s been six months, and we need a full complement of double-ohs.”

“Yes, I am aware of that. But why pretend Bond is still with us?”

“He’s always with us. Has been for nearly sixty years.”

Q had had enough of this silliness. “Bill, I have work to do—”

“Give me a chance to explain, Q.” Bill pulled a file from a drawer, and set it in front of Q. “Have a look at this. You won’t find this in our digital files. This is the only record.”

Q opened the file. “Who’s this?”

“The first 007. Scottish, as it happens. Keep going.”

The next showed a handsome man too. Q looked to Bill for explanation. “Also 007. An Australian—he was a bit of a disaster actually—then an Englishman, a Welshman, an Irishman, and then finally the one you think of as ‘Bond’. All James Bond, and all 007.” Bill leaned back. “Bond is bit like the dread pirate Robert in that way.”

“Pardon?” Q stared at Bill, then at the assortment of handsome men in the photos before him.

“Ah, too early a reference for you. Doctor Who? Regenerations?”

“Oh. Right. So my—the old—Bond is the Doctor’s regeneration number six?”

“Something like that. Only without the two hearts.”

“Or a heart at all.”

Bill raised an eyebrow. “Come now, he wasn’t that bad.”

“No. Just your usual sociopathic double-oh.” Even that wasn’t strictly true. The elite agents had to fit a certain profile with a flexible morality that allowed them to kill without conscience, but actual sociopaths would not pass the psychological requirements.

Probably not.

“Why?” Q asked. “People must notice, surely.”

“Of course. But the few who interact with these double-ohs usually only call them by their designations, not their names. And with the staff turnover, you’d be surprised how few actually notice or care that one agent has the same name as the previous. As to why—the first ‘replacement’ came when we were in the middle of a crisis, and ‘James Bond’ had to be seen to be still in the saddle. After that, it became a useful fiction. The M at the time thought it rather put the wind up the other side to have this relentless, apparently unstoppable agent coming after them. It is a name to conjure with, after all.”

“It’s a load of old bollocks, if you ask me.”

Bill nodded. “That too. But that’s how it is. The Bonds slip out of their real identities for the duration of their service here, and once they retire—or die—they slip out again. Your Bond is no longer James Bond, just as he is no longer 007.”

“And this one?”

“Ex-SAS. Tough as titanium, despite his pretty-boy looks. Engineering with computing as his first degree, worked in Afghanistan for five years. Recruited last year and selected by M—this M—himself to come into the double-oh program.”

“His real name is...?”

“On a need to know basis, and you’ll never need to know. No one does. He works with you as James Bond, you treat him as James Bond, and you give him hell as James Bond.”

Q smiled. “I can manage that. When’s his first mission? SPECTRE?”

“Not yet.” Bill’s demeanour became serious, the grin gone. “We want people with more knowledge of SPECTRE. Ideally we would have liked the old Bond, although he was becoming a liability in some ways. I reckon he took off before M had to issue a kill order on him.”

But not before he got a lovely new car out of MI6. “Then I have work to do for those agents, and the new 007.”

“Indeed. This is all hush hush, of course.”

“Of course.” Q rose. “Um, don’t answer if you don’t want to, but he is gay, isn’t he?”

“Bisexual, but that’s not a problem for you, is it? We are one of Britain’s most LGBT friendly employers after all.” Bill smirked.

“Of course it’s not a problem. I just wanted to...damn it, Bill, stop laughing at me.”

Bill did no such thing. “Do I have to give you the same warning as I give the female staff about the double-ohs?”

“Spare me. Thank you for the briefing, Bill.”

“Thank _you,_ Q.”

Q resisted giving Bill the middle finger because they were all professionals here, and it would only make Bill grin harder. But a bi 007? That was a turn up for the books.

 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

Q looked up “dread pirate Robert” and when he found he had been just three years old when the movie came out, he didn’t feel quite so stupid for not getting the reference. But Bond wasn’t the Doctor either.

“Dread pirate 007, arrrrr,” Q muttered as he shut the search window done. MI6 showed a regrettable fondness at times for playing silly buggers.

He pulled up the file on ‘James Bond’. It was somewhat disconcerting to see the familiar, and indeed, highly pertinent parts of the old Bond’s biography replaced by the impressive but completely new information on this James Bond. Maybe this one liked to be called ‘Jim’? Or even ‘Jimmy’?

No, Q thought. He carried himself like a James. His suit certainly did.

He called Jason, his senior assistant, into his office and informed him that there was a new 007, and he would need gun, communicator and a watch with signal beacon at a bare minimum. “When’s he coming down for a fitting?”

“Soon. Ah, actually, now,” Q amended, spotting Eve leading ‘James’ through the workstations. “There he is.”

“That kid?” Jason raised both eyebrows.

“That ‘kid’ is a year old than me, Mr Smithson, and ageist remarks do not become a member of Q-branch.”

Jason wilted under Q’s glare. “Sorry, boss.”

“Apology accepted. Hi, Eve, 007. 007, this is Jason Smithson, my second here in Q-branch.”

The two men shook hands, but the new 007 didn’t introduce himself further. Q could quite see why. “Jason is going to outfit you, 007. We will need your biometrics for your weaponry, and take various measurements.”

“Don’t forget the inside leg,” Eve said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Jason covered his mouth, while New Bond—as Q decided he would have to think of him at least in the short term—smiled politely.

“Thank you, Miss Moneypenny, we’ve been doing this for some time.” Q gave her his best evil eye. Eve, unabashed, played innocent. “I think you can leave the agent in our hands unless you need him for something right this moment?”

“Oh, not at all. But M reminded me I need to update my weapons proficiency certificate, and I was hoping to use the gun range.”

“Leave it to this afternoon and I’ll come with you. But for the moment, if you would leave us to get on?”

Eve pouted a little, having been outmanoeuvred. “See you later, 007, Q. Bye, Jason.”

The three of them watched her leave, because, how could one not? Then Q coughed. “She’s a frighteningly good shot.”

“And a fine field agent, I hear,” New Bond said. “Shame to lose her to a secretarial position.”

Q, who knew Eve, with a staff of her own, was as far from being a secretary as it was possible to be merely nodded. “Jason, please start with the basics. Let me know if you need anything extra, 007. We do aim to please.”

007 gave him a hundred watt smile. “As do I, Q. As do I.”

 _Please don’t let me fall in lust with a fucking double-oh_ , Q prayed. He _liked_ his job.

 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

New Bond had just two days to become accustomed to his role and Q-branch’s equipment, before he was hauled out to deal with a mess in the Ukraine. Did he speak Ukrainian? No, just Russian, 007 replied to Q’s question, as well as five other languages, and the ability to read another two, not counting computer code. Q, who was moderately fluent in French because of Grand-Mère, could muddle by in Italian thanks to his second boyfriend, and knew a few curses in Japanese (another boyfriend), tried not to show any lingual envy. He handed over a set of micro-grenades and a tracker, readying himself for the lecture on returning equipment, thank you, 007, when the agent leaned forward.

“Of course I will take _very_ good care of the government inventory, Q. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to something so valuable.”

Q found himself staring into smiling brown eyes for just a second longer than was necessary, and pushed himself back in his chair. “Quite,” he said through a dry throat. Then wiped his forehead as New Bond winked, and walked out in his lithe and entirely watchable way. Damn it, the man was good looking. And knew it.

One of his subordinates was hovering in the doorway. “Yes, Susan?” Q snapped.

“Sir, did you issue the camera pen to 007?”

“Shit, I forgot. Do you think you could—”

“Of course, sir!” She ran with a tad too little decorum after their attractive changeling, sparing Q the need to do the same. This 007 had made a conquest of Susan, who’d always been terrified by the old one. Classic Bond, Q thought, only flirted with women he planned to bed. New Bond was charming to everyone, male and female. It took some getting used to.

 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

Q stripped down the SIG Sauer with only half his mind on the task. Eve, beside him, was expending even less concentration. “So what do you think of our new Bond?” she asked, looking down the barrel.

“I think a hint would have been nice, Eve. I don’t like surprises.”

“But he was such a nice surprise. I like him. He’s sweet.”

“Yes, because what Six needs right now is a sweet 007. He has to kill people, you realize.”

“But he won’t be cruel about it. Not like—” She stopped. “I suppose that’s not fair. He wasn’t cruel. But he wasn’t sorry either.”

“I don’t know that the dead really give a damn how sorry their killer is.” Q had already reassembled his weapon. “Or how good looking.”

“But _we_ do, don’t we?”

Q disdained to respond to that remark. “Ready for target practice?”

“Always. My favourite thing.”

And Q’s, if he was forced to admit it. He fired weapons all the time, but only here on the range was it a competition against his own best scores. He put on the ear protection and adopted the correct stance.

“Ready!” he shouted and the target advanced. He fired six bullets, then laid his weapon down.

“Cor. Six perfect heart shots.” Eve had been watching from the back. “Who do you imagine when you shoot them?”

“No one, Eve. I don’t have a license to kill any more than you do.”

“I’ve shot to kill.” She looked annoyed.

“Then how is old Bond still walking around?” Q grinned to show he was joking.

“Two men on a moving train? You do better, you desk-bound boffin.”

“Not any time soon.”

He watched her take her shots, creating an equally perfect array of hits. When they were done, it was close enough to knocking off time that Eve suggested they go for a drink. Q mentally reviewed what was waiting for him on his desk, and figured he could, for once, leave on time on a Friday night. The pub closest to the new headquarters was their favoured haunt, and Eve and Q were not the only people from Six there as they walked in. The place was already busy.

“Half a bitter,” Q ordered.

“Same for me,” Eve added. “And a packet of crisps. I missed lunch and I’m starving.”

They found a corner table, and let the buzz of conversation give them some privacy. Eve ate a crisp. “Plans for the weekend?”

“Just puttering. Naomi’s away again, and there’s always stuff that needs to be done in an old house.”

“That’s why I like my apartment. Nice and clean and new.”

“To each their own, I suppose.” He pinched a crisp.

Eve regarded him as he ate it. “You seem cross. The new boy?”

“Not really. Just the not being told, and then the bollocks behind it. I don’t have an opinion on him one way or the other.”

“Oh? Really?”

“Really. It’s not my job to assess him. That’s already been done.”

“But you’re allowed an opinion. I’m just glad to have another brown face around the office.”

“Yes, that is nice.”

“And a pretty one too.” She grinned. “Come on, Daniel. You have to have an opinion on _that_.”

“My opinion is that the people in that job are always pretty and always dangerous, and that’s all I’m prepared to say about that, especially here.”

“The last one wasn’t pretty. More like an old bull elephant.”

Q had heard that Eve had more than enough chance to assess the old Bond’s looks up close and personal, and was surprised to hear her be so dismissive. “He did his job,” he muttered.

“Yeah, like an old bull elephant. No finesse, the old boss used to say.”

Q hadn’t been particularly fond of the old M—she’d made it plain that while he was highly qualified, he was too young and too gay for her personal liking, even if she hadn’t actually objected to his being put forward for head of Q branch. “Maybe.” This was not the place for a dissection of the methods used by the double-ohs. “What are your plans for the weekend then, if you don’t have to worry about your apartment?”

Eve looked at him over her glass, and accepted the change of subject, thankfully. She had a date that evening and didn’t want to stay long, so they parted ways less than an hour later, she to a taxi and to her swish flat at Vauxhall, and Q to the Northern line for the tube home to Hampstead. An early night in with the cats and a movie would feel like heaven. The subject of Bond, old and new, could wait until Monday.

 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

007’s Ukrainian mission was finished in three days with no deaths, no explosions, no diplomatic crises, and a hard drive full of tantalizing data Q couldn’t wait to decrypt. _And_ with every item returned in the condition it had been issued in. Q couldn’t help but stare in amazement at the inventory as 007 put them in the tray for checking in.

“Something wrong, Q?”

“Not at all, 007. Uh, good work.”

“Thank you, sir.” The reply came with an ironic salute, and a casual wave goodbye.

Bill Tanner walked into Q’s office as 007 was leaving. “Make a change, don’t you think? A very good start at least.”

“It’s only a start, but yes, I’m moderately impressed. I won’t be in any hurry to build him a car.”

“Well no. Anyway, I need to speak to you about 009’s next job.”

‘A good start’ seemed to be the general impression from everyone who had to work with the new Bond. More than that, he went to a lot of trouble to show appropriate gratitude to anyone in Q branch who went even slightly above and beyond for him. A box of chocolate here, a bottle of wine there, a birthday card for the youngest member of the team on her twenty-first birthday, all went a long way to making 007 easily the best liked double-oh in Q’s four year tenure, and generated a frisson of pleasure whenever he walked into the department. Rumour had it that 006 was jealous, and if the increase of politeness towards Q’s staff from that quarter was the result, Q wasn’t going to complain.

He had nothing to complain about at all, and that he felt like complaining anyway, was puzzling and immensely irritating. The new Bond was pleasant, equable, inoffensively flirty, excellent at his job and not remotely inclined to insubordination, which made his incarnation as the ‘dread pirate 007’ even more implausible than him being half-Bengali, queer, and with an Engineering first. He was, in every way, a vast improvement on the old model. Yet Q found it grating. He understood new Bond’s motives—first biracial double-oh, young for the job as Q had been, coming into a Six still reeling from huge shocks and bereavements. He had to tread cautiously. In the new guy’s place, Q would have done the same. There wasn’t anything sinister behind it, and 007 was, despite the pleasant veneer, quite as good at the sharp end of the job as the old Bond had been.

So Q had no idea why was on the verge of shaking his metaphorical cane and bitching about young whippersnappers. He hadn’t even _liked_ the old Bond that much. The man didn’t know the word ‘thank you’, never remembered anyone’s birthday, and had no compunction whatsoever in manipulating staff to do his bidding and leaving them to swing if regulations had been crumpled, if not outright broken. And he certainly hadn’t been _pretty_.

Perhaps, Q thought, he was falling prey to ‘the only gay in the village’ syndrome. But just as Q kept his private and professional life strictly separate, so apparently did new Bond. Office gossip turned occasionally to who and would not shag 007, but not a whisper of anyone who had. Even Eve, who would be prepared to go for a whirl—strictly for comparative purposes, as she’d confessed one night when half a pint had turned into four—hadn’t been asked. And Q himself had never had the slightest suspicion that new Bond was remotely interested in _him_.

Perhaps _that_ was the problem. But after three months Q really didn’t think that was it. For no reason he could fathom, he simply couldn’t get used to the new 007’s sleek and polite presence, after the old bull in the china shop’s memorable hold on the job.

What Q really needed was a holiday, but there never seemed to be time to take one. A week ago he had taken a single _day_ off for Rosh Hashanah with his family and had returned to chaos. Even so, he’d be forced onto leave if he didn’t take some soon. Xmas would have to be a two-week break, he supposed. Meanwhile, too many late nights at Six was turning him into a curmudgeon—worse, the kind of person who used ‘curmudgeon’ in their internal thoughts. At least he could probably count on a clear weekend. Eve had even forwarded some information about a film festival she thought he might enjoy, but Q rather thought spending at least a day without staring at a screen, film or otherwise, would do his eyesight and temper more good than the latest art house favourite.

Trudging up the hill from the tube station, his only thought was he would need to do some shopping tomorrow if the cats weren’t to starve. He opened the wooden gate to the house’s path, closed it, then jumped a foot off the ground as he heard a rustle in the shrubs and a quiet ‘Q’. He had his hand inside his coat and on his handgun before he realised who the speaker was. “007...I mean, Bond. What the hell are you doing here?”

The man stayed in the shadows of the garden. “I’m in trouble and I need help, Q.”

“Then go to M—”

Bond’s strong hand gripped Q’s wrist. “No. I can’t. Please, Q.”

And that was the first ‘please’ Q had ever heard him utter. ‘Trouble’ could mean illegal or treasonous or any number of things which Q should report immediately, but he supposed he could hear the man out. Bond—the old one—would have no trouble hurting Q if he wanted to, but he didn’t seem hostile.

“Come in, then. Wipe your feet.”

“Thank you.” Another first.

Q let them into the house and went to turn on a light in the hall. Bond stopped him. “Uh, if you don’t mind...draw the curtains at least.”

Q huffed in annoyance but did as he was bid. “Come into the kitchen. It’s at the back of the house.”

Bond followed him. Q didn’t dare look at him until he had pulled the blinds down in the kitchen and turned on a single light. He indicated a chair, and Bond slumped into it. Then Q did look. The man was dirty, unshaven, and his eyes bleaker than Q had ever seen them.

“You look like shit. What’s happened?”

“Madeleine—Dr Swann—was murdered eight days ago. Cut to pieces in my apartment, left on the bed for me to find.” The emotionless words contrasted with the raspy voice and the hollow eyes.

“Dear God, that’s horrible. M needs to know—”

“No. He’ll find out, but not from me. Q, you have a mole in Six. Someone who knew where we were.”

“Through her, surely.”

“She was killed two days after I contacted Six to give them my location.”

Q nodded. No one at MI6 believed in coincidences. “I’m sorry, Bond...shit. I can’t keep calling you that. What’s your real name?” Q couldn’t help but ask, then realised his _faux pas_. “Sorry, I’m being nosy. I can just call you ‘Smith’ or something. Want some tea?”

Bond nodded. “Please. And James.”

“What?”

“My real name is actually James. James Arthur Murray.”

“Oh. Um, thank you.” Q filled the kettle and didn’t look at his guest as he fussed about with the tea things. He hadn’t expected that amount of candour.

“You understand that only two, maybe three people at MI6 know that. And now you.”

“And Blofeld, of course.”

“Yes.”

The kettle boiled and Q mechanically heated the pot with a little water, swilled it, and emptied it. He put the right number of spoonfuls of tea into the pot, and filled it with hot water. Only once he’d done that and put the cosy on the teapot, did he turn around. “Why are you trusting me? I would be as well placed as anyone to expose you.”

Bond—James—rubbed his forehead. He looked exhausted, like every move cost him energy he didn’t have. “I can’t be totally sure...but you rebuilt the DB5. You let me take it. And you didn’t put a tracker on it or any other crap.”

“I was the one who screwed up over Silva.”

James nodded. “I know. But you also helped me kill him. M trusted you, and I trusted her. If you’re the mole, well...you’ve got me where you want me.” He smiled thinly, as if it was an effort.

“I think I’m well past the point of lines like that working on me, 00—Mr Murray.”

“For fuck’s sake, call me James. Commander Murray if you must. I’m a civilian now, but my rank was real, and so was my career.”

“Milk? Sugar...no, of course not.”

Q got the milk out of the fridge and pulled down two mugs, thankful he never left the kitchen in a mess. A pitiful “mraow?” and quick padding feet announced the arrival of Moses. “Here, help yourself,” he said to James, putting the milk down and picking up his elderly cat. “Where’s Isaac, hmmm?” he asked, stroking Moses’s silky head.

James poured out tea for himself and one for Q after enquiring with a raised eyebrow. “Biblical cats?”

“Grandfather and great-grandfather names actually. I’m Daniel Gelberg. So now you know.” It wasn’t exactly a secret but no one, not even Bill, used his real name at work. It was a Q-branch thing, apparently.

“Nice to meet you...Daniel? Danny? Dan? Mr Gelberg?”

Q didn’t want to answer that right now. “I don’t care. Pick one and stick to it. Yes, yes, I’m getting your dinner, Moses.”

Another complaining call announced Isaac, running in and rubbing against Q’s leg. James reached down and patted Isaac’s black fur. “They’re both pretty old, aren’t they?”

“Fifteen and a half. Brothers. Belonged to my grandmother. This is—was—her house. She left it to my sister and me when she died two years ago.”

“Ah.” James drank from his mug, and said nothing more, apparently embarrassed by this personal revelation. “Your sister?”

“Away. She usually is.” And that was as much information as Commander Murray was getting tonight. “Have you eaten?”

“No. I’m down to my last fiver, unfortunately.”

Q frowned. “You can’t have got through all your money in nine months, surely? What about your pension?”

The answering laugh was a sour thing. “Of course not. But I daren’t touch my account since it will immediately give away my location. That’s why I need you. I’ve been living on the cash I had on me when Madeleine was killed. I need someone to extract money from my accounts and get it to me without it being traced.”

“And I would do this without MI6 authorisation why, exactly? You’re no longer an agent...James,” Q stumbled over the name he had never used for Bond...Murray. “I’d lose my job, and face prosecution for money laundering. No.”

“Okay. Couldn’t ask you for a loan then, could I? I hate to ask, but I’m desperate.”

This was a side of the old 007 Q had never seen, but he knew perfectly well the double-ohs were specifically trained in manipulation. “Maybe. I need to think. Where are you staying?” James shrugged. “Well, where did you stay last night?”

“I’ve been sleeping rough.”

Looking at the state of him, the muddy duffle bag and coat, Q could believe that. “Were you followed here?”

“No. I swear I wasn’t. I’m not that out of form.”

Isaac took that moment to jump up into James’s lap and begin kneading at his chest. “Hey, I don’t think you’ll get much out of me,” James murmured, gently stroking Isaac’s skinny back.

Q took a can of cat food out of the cupboard and schnicked at the two felines to come into the laundry to be fed. Isaac seemed reluctant, but followed Moses, and set to eating once Q had put the food down. He closed the laundry door and came back into the kitchen.

“Sorry. I wasn’t going to _hurt_ him,” James said.

“What? Oh, no, I’d just forgotten to put the food out. James, if you wanted to force me to help you, I assume you’d have tried to by now.”

“What would be the point? Lose my only possible trustworthy ally?”

“I’m not sure you can call me an ally. I’m still contemplating calling M.”

“Please. Please don’t. I’m not afraid to die, but I want the bastards who killed Madeleine first.”

“Why not leave that to the new 007?”

James leaned back in his chair. “Ah. Replaced already? What’s he like?”

“Nothing like you,” Q said, picking up his tea and motioning to James to top up his own mug. Q wondered if he had enough food in the house for two—he could hardly turn the man out without feeding him at the very least.

“Still has spots, does he?”

Now that was the old Bond he knew. “No. He’s a little older than me. He’s handsome, educated, polite, and generous. Very unlike you.” James acknowledged this assessment with a mere quirk of the lips. “And bisexual,” Q couldn’t resist adding.

“Not so different then,” James said calmly, before he sipped his tea.

Q choked. He hadn’t even heard _rumours_ of that before. “Uh, would you...uh...like to eat? I have no idea what’s in the fridge.” He babbled to himself as he rooted through the cupboard. Soup. He could do soup, and there was some bread, so toast.

“Look, you don’t have to—”

“Of course I bloody have to! Damn it, Bond....James, you turn up looking like crap, broke and helpless and act like you actually know the meaning of humility, and I’m supposed to turn you out into a freezing November night without even offering you a biscuit? Don’t think much of me, do you?” Q slammed a tin of soup down on the counter and rattled in a drawer for the opener.

“I think a lot of you, Q...Danny. But you owe me nothing.”

“The _country_ owes you,” Q grated out, attacking the soup can with gusto.

“You’re not Britain, and I was paid. But,” James added as Q turned around and menaced him with the can opener, “Supper would be lovely. Thank you.”

“You may as well stay here for the weekend. _If_ I agree to a loan, I’ll need to go to my bank, and they’re not open until Monday. We have plenty of spare rooms. Laundry’s through there, shower in the first floor bathroom. Don’t snoop. Towels in the cupboard on the first floor landing, and a dressing gown of Grandfather’s should be on the shelf above. Shoo.”

“Thank you.” The relief in James’s voice was also new. Old Bond’s anger, frustration, arrogance were emotions Q knew. But helplessness? Gratitude? Never before.

“Go before I change my mind. Just dump your washing over there,” he said, pointing to the laundry door. “No point in scaring the cats until they’ve had a chance to eat.”

“No, quite. I won’t be long.”

James extracted a wash bag and underwear from his duffle bag and left the bag in the kitchen. Q resisted the opportunity to snoop, although he would have to find out what James had in the way of weaponry, and whether he was telling the truth about being broke. Q had money he could lend, but whether that was a wise move or the best option for James, he couldn’t tell. Not yet. And he refused to be pushed into any action he deemed reckless or treasonous.

He itched to call Eve at the very least. Surely James trusted her. Or Bill Tanner. If Madeleine Swann had been murdered, it had to be by agents of SPECTRE, and that was too much for Q to handle on his own. Too much for Bond...James as well.

By the time James returned to the kitchen, shaven, clean, and clad in Grandfather’s old robe, Q had put together a reasonable scratch meal, and had mustered his arguments for contacting Six about James’s situation. He laid out the food—soup, toast, cheese—and said, “There’s ice cream for dessert if you’d like. I think there’s a bottle of wine somewhere. I don’t drink at home much, but my sister does from time to time.”

“This is lovely, thank you. And I don’t need wine.”

“I could get used to the polite version of you,” Q said, sitting down. Moses and Isaac twined around his legs before walking off in search of a post-prandial nap in front of a heater in the living room.

“No need. I won’t be here long.” James ate some of the soup and took some toast. “I’m putting you in danger the longer I stay.”

“But where would you go? How can you travel without being detected? You haven’t thought this through.”

“No. Usually I have people to help with that, at least at the start of a mission. I lost it a bit when I found her.” He set his spoon down. “I thought we were safe after all this time.”

“Did you love her?”

“No. But I could have done. We were mutual comfort. She didn’t deserve a death like that.”

“No one does.” Q had made a fresh pot of tea, and poured a mug for James without asking.

“The great British cure all,” James said, looking at the mug.

“Got us through the war, didn’t it? Look, I’ve been thinking. Let me at least talk to Moneypenny.”

“No. She’ll tell M.”

“You can’t possibly think Eve or M are moles.”

“No...but I don’t think they can keep it to themselves without breaching their own sense of duty. Which I respect before you yell at me.”

“What about Tanner?”

James shrugged. “Same.”

“But you don’t think I share the same sense of duty? Just because I helped you over Silva doesn’t mean I’m going to go rogue every time you whistle at me.”

James smirked a little at that, which annoyed Q. “You’re manipulating me. I don’t even have any proof anything you’ve said is true.”

James stood up with a screech of his chair, went to his bag, and pulled out his phone, switching it on. He slammed it down on the table. “Proof enough?” he growled.

Q looked at the photo of Dr Swann’s body. At least, he had to assume it was her. It was hard to tell. “Put it away,” he managed through a throat thick with nausea. James obeyed, turning the phone off completely before pocketing it. “All right, she’s dead. I believe you. But you don’t have a plan.”

“It depends on how much money I can scrape together. If I have to, I’ll withdraw cash directly but SPECTRE will be on me within the hour.”

Q admitted this was most likely. “But you don’t know who killed her, you likely only have a sidearm as a weapon—”

“I _am_ a weapon.”

Q snorted. “You’re a middle-aged man carrying a lot of badly healed injuries and you’ve been out of the game for nine months. Eve could take you.”

“Could _you_?”

Something coiled in Q’s lower belly at the provocative words. “I could ruin your life and not leave a scratch.”

“So you could. I certainly would leave scratches, but your life would be just as ruined. Or over.” James sat down again. “Which is not a threat, so we’re clear about it.”

“Eat your soup.”

“Yes, mother.”

They finished the meal in silence, and James accepted ice cream. “Your sister’s or yours?” he asked.

“I honestly don’t remember. It’s probably been there since September. Food poisoning optional of course.”

James licked his spoon. “I’ve eaten a lot worse. Thank you.”

They took their tea into the living room, and the cats promptly claimed them as superior heated cushions on which to lounge. “Cheeky,” James murmured as Isaac sniffed his tea mug.

“Stop it, Isaac. You don’t drink tea.”

“Maybe he likes my smell.”

“More likely he likes my grandmother’s. She used to wear that dressing gown.”

If he thought that would disconcert James, there was no sign of it. The former agent had regained his composure with food and a wash, and Q mentally raised his guard against being pushed into something he didn’t want to do by Six’s most notorious manipulator.

James seemed content to stroke Isaac and drink his tea, as if his lover hadn’t been murdered a week ago, and his life was not in immediate peril from a group of supervillains. Q felt more disquieted than James looked. “Where will you start?” he finally asked, just as his phone rang. “Bugger, hang on. Q here.”

It was Bill Tanner. “Q, we have a situation. There’s been a breakout from Wakefield Prison. Blofeld is missing.”

Q went still. “Need me to come in?”

“Not yet. Just keeping you informed. Officially the police are handling it. Unofficially, we’re giving them every assistance. You, uh, should take the usual precautions.”

“Understood. Thanks, Bill.” He closed the call, and looked at James. “Blofeld’s escaped from prison.”

James went stiff and an offended Isaac jumped from his knees. “Then that’s where I’ll start. By killing Blofeld.”

 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

With no access to current intelligence—Q flat out refused to connect to the office to find out—no money and limited weaponry, James ungraciously acceded to Q’s insistence that they wait until the morning before making decisions. “If you act or leave before then, I will have no choice but to alert M and have a red flag put on your file. And my laptop has a kill switch on it. Don’t even think of hacking it unless you want to lose a hand.”

“Harsh, Q,” James had said.

“Frankly, you blundering around after Blofeld at this point scares me more than he does. You’re a bloody _target_. Don’t make everyone else one who you try to rope into this plan of yours. Isn’t Madeleine enough?”

James’s lips had thinned to invisibility at that remark. “You said you had spare bedrooms? Though I can sleep in the laundry if you prefer.”

“Don’t be a twit, 007,” Q said, not even bothering to correct himself. “Same landing as the bathroom. Bed’s all made up. I have to go shopping tomorrow. Have breakfast before I decide if it’s for one person or two.”

James left without another word. Isaac followed him, doubtless seeking warmth and comfort the man was incapable of giving.

Q rubbed his hands through his hair, and over his chin. He needed a shave but couldn’t be arsed. His hand went to his phone three times before he convinced himself to give James this evening before he called Tanner or Eve. Neither of them would thank him for the news, he suspected, especially with Blofeld on the loose.

After James had gone to bed, Q connected to the MI6 network. 005 and 006 had already been assigned to the Blofeld matter and were liaising with the police. Although no one actually knew a damn thing. The break out was an inside job, but the guards involved had been killed in the operation—no doubt by Blofeld, Q considered—and no trace had been detected of him after that. Whether that was true remained to be seen of course. The police had been implicated in the Silva botch up and escape, and MI6’s official position was ‘assist with caution’, hence the use of double-ohs as liaisons.

Tanner had said James could be of assistance. That would be doubly so now. Mole or no mole, Q couldn’t see any reason not to tell Six about James’s situation, and a good many _to_ do so. Q fell asleep still churning it all over in his head, and not surprisingly dreamt ugly dreams of mayhem and slaughter. He’d never been more grateful for two furry heads butting his in the morning, demanding food and company. He cuddled the two hairy chums and talked nonsense to them. Cats were much easier to work out than ex-agents and their agendas.

James had made the tea when Q came down after his shower. “Ta,” Q said, taking a mug and standing by the sink. “Have you eaten?”

“No. I didn’t want to raid your supplies until I knew what you were keeping back.”

Q rolled his eyes. “Toast,” he said, pointing to the toaster. “Muesli,” pointing to the cupboard. “And a two day old muffin in the fridge I am willing to sacrifice for Queen and country.”

James actually laughed, which forced a reluctant smile out of Q. “Toast is fine. Marmalade?”

“Of course. We _are_ in Britain.”

He fed the cats and sat down to eat his own breakfast. Warmed, the muffin wasn’t too disgusting. James revealed nothing of his thought processes as he munched his way through toast, though the elephant in the room wasn’t getting any smaller or less smelly.

Finished his tea, Q leapt into the silence. “I’ve given this a lot of thought and I believe we need to involve Tanner, if not M directly. This has blown up past your or my ability to deal with it, and I’m not going to be argued out of that.”

James looked at him over his mug. “I agree.”

“You do?”

“Yes. They need me as much as I need them.”

“Oh. Well, yes. But what changed your mind?”

“As you said, I’ve been out of the game for too long. I need to know the current situation. No one’s going to cooperate with me unless I give something back.”

“ _Now_ he understands,” Q muttered. James merely smirked. “You better not be playing some double game here, 007. I’ll happily shoot you myself if you are.”

“I have no doubt of that. Though can you see a damn thing without those glasses of yours?” He reached over as if to grab them from Q’s face.

“Yes. Fuck off, James. If you’re asking me if I can defend myself, I can. Finish up and I’ll call Tanner.”

Q sent a text to Bill asking for a secure conversation. Bill called back in thirty seconds. “Q, what’s happened?”

“I’m sitting here with Commander James Murray. We’re at my house.”

“Bloody hell, really? Bond...Murray, what are you playing at?”

“Good morning to you, Tanner. Madeleine Swann is dead, and so would I be if I hadn’t got out of town in a hurry. I need MI6’s help, and it appears you need mine.”

“I wish that wasn’t true. Either part,” Bill said. “Q, assessment?”

“I believe he’s telling the truth as much as it’s possible for a double-oh to do.” James snorted. “Any further leads on Blofeld?”

“No. We have 005 and 006 on it. MI5 are involved as well.”

“Marvellous,” James said. “005 and 006 aren’t enough. Why haven’t you given the new 007 the mission?”

“That’s need to know, _Mr_ Murray. If you’re prepared to provide your personal knowledge of Blofeld to assist this mission, well and good, but you are _not_ coming back to MI6 in any manner. You’re a civilian. Q, take us off speaker and find a secure room.”

Q obeyed, ignoring the glare from his companion, and went upstairs to his bedroom, shutting the door. “He needs to be on a bloody leash,” Bill said. “Perhaps I should have him arrested as a precaution.”

“Do we want the police to know where he is?”

“No, and that’s all that’s stopping me. The cheek of the bastard. Okay, find out what he knows, what he can tell us. In return, we’ll assist him in going into hiding, set him up with a new identity, whatever he needs—but only if he plays it straight. M is right out of patience with rogue agents, and Murray is the reason for that.”

“Quite,” Q said. “He needs funds. He’s asked me to transfer money covertly to him. I refused.”

“Well done. We’ll arrange a chit for him. Can he stay with you?”

“For a week, no more. I don’t know when my sister is returning, and I won’t have him around her.”

“Don’t blame you for a second, Q. We can move him to a safe house at any point you feel you’ve had enough. Tell him to stay inside, and do not under any circumstances give him access to your account.”

“Understood. Do I need to come in, do you think?”

“No. In fact you might consider working from home at least on Monday, if you can. He needs a handler as well as a leash.”

“I’ll break out the riding crop.”

“I hear he might enjoy that, Q.” Q choked on his laugh. “No one else needs to know about him. I’ll inform Moneypenny and M, but any intelligence he gives us, can be provided without his involvement. We need to quarantine him.”

“He says we have a mole.”

“Undoubtedly,” Bill said dryly. “And the chances of him being a double are not zero, either. Take his phone into safekeeping, and do your best to keep him out of sight.”

“I will. Thanks, Bill. I’ll keep you informed.”

“Good luck, Q. You’ll need it.”

He went downstairs. James apparently hadn’t moved since he’d left. “Were you listening at the door?” Q asked.

“Would I have heard anything interesting if I had?”

“Undoubtedly. Give me your phone. Tanner wants you quarantined.”

James handed it over without complaint. “Can’t use it anyway. There isn’t a thing I can do electronically that SPECTRE can’t track.”

“They think they can anyway,” Q said. “You’re to stay indoors, out of sight, and offline. You can watch TV,” he added. “Or play solitaire.”

“Are the cats off limits?”

“The cats are free agents. _Félins sans frontieres_ ,” Q said. “You don’t seem too put out.”

“I’m safe, fed, and warm. At this point, I’m ahead of the game. But you need to convince Tanner to put 007 on the job. If he’s as good as you say—”

“Operational matters are not your concern, James. Your personal vendetta is not the be all and end all of Six’s priorities.”

James walked out of the kitchen, back stiff and offended. Q cursed himself. Yes, it was true, but maybe he could have been a little more sensitive. On the other hand, James might be just acting. Who knew?

He made a shopping list. Normally he would take a bus to Camden and the Sainsbury’s there, but he didn’t want to be gone so long, so the village shops would have to do. He could have asked his guest if he had any preferences or allergies, but Q already knew James was allergic to nothing and as for preferences, he could jolly well eat what Q ate.

“Going out, locking up,” he called. “No guests expected.”

A grunt was the only reply. Q decided to take his time and give Commander Cranky time to cool off. Once on the High Street, if Q indulged himself on rather better bread and cheese than could be obtained in Sainsbury’s, he told himself that he had planned a relaxing weekend and good food was part of that. He lingered in front of the off-license—should he buy some wine? What if it was horrible and James thought he lacked sophistication? Perhaps whisky...no, sod it, the man needed to be sharp if he was being hunted.

He was gone an hour, and returned to find James in the living room, book in hand, Isaac on the chair back behind his head, and Moses lounging in front of the heater. “All right?” he asked. James only nodded without looking up. Miserable sod.

But in the laundry the dryer was working, and the kitchen was spotless, so James had some idea how to behave like a decent guest. Q put the food away, and went into the living room. “Bought the papers, in case you want to read up about the prison breakout.” He dumped them on the coffee table. The story was on all the front pages.

“Thanks. I caught a bit of the BBC report. No one knows what actually happened.”

“No, I suppose not. Look...I want to apologise. That was a shitty thing to say, you know, before.”

James closed the book. “Yes. But it’s true, nonetheless.”

“No, it wasn’t. SPECTRE hunting you, hunting any one of our agents, past or present, is MI6’s business. Whether Blofeld has it in for you personally or not—”

“Oh, he does.”

Q dismissed this with a wave. “Well, whatever. He’s an enemy of Britain, and his actions and those of SPECTRE have to be stopped. That you may have a personal stake in that happening too doesn’t make it unimportant.”

James held his gaze. “Thank you. Apology accepted. I hope you don’t mind....” He held up the book. One of Grand-Mère’s.

“Not at all. I, uh, didn’t peg you as a reader.”

James lifted an eyebrow. “I might not be as highly educated as my replacement, but I’m not _exactly_ illiterate.”

Q’s face flushed with heat. He’d been caught out being a bloody snob. “Of course not. Um, I didn’t buy any wine.”

“I don’t need any. I’m not drinking any more.”

Q sat down, shocked. “You have a problem with alcohol?”

“You hadn’t noticed? Drinking too much is practically the MI6’s motto. Madeleine told me I was killing myself, and I realised I didn’t have to do that any more. Not for the job, not for me. And as you pointed out, I have enough physical deficiencies without adding liver failure to the list.”

“Right.” Q didn’t know where to look. “Would you like me to hide any booze we have in the house? I mean, I don’t know what we have—”

“I’m not that bad, Q...Danny. No twelve steps or anything like that. But you don’t drink much, and I don’t need to. Don’t go buying the stuff on my account.”

“Okay. Uh, the new 007...he’s Muslim, so he doesn’t drink unless the job requires it.”

“That’s what we all start out saying. Then it’s a glass of brandy or whiskey with the boss, or to relax after a mission, or to wash the taste of blood and gun oil out of your mouth, or to help you sleep, until you can’t sleep without that quarter bottle of Scotch. Then you drink in the mornings because your hands shake, and in the afternoons because the thought of eating makes you want to vomit.” James drew in a breath. “I wish him luck. I wouldn’t wish the job on any one.”

“At least you got out alive.”

“Remains to be seen, doesn’t it? I’m happy enough here but is there anything you want a hand with? A big old house like this, needs work. I know that all too well.”

“You...want to help me do DIY?”

“If you trust me with a hammer,” James said, mouth quirking. “Or a paintbrush. I’ve even been known to hoover.”

“Now that’s an image I don’t need. One of the most dangerous men in the world cleaning my carpets. If you’re serious, I do have a list of little jobs I was planning to catch up on , and if I have to work from home next week, this is a good time to tackle them.”

James stood. Wearing worn jeans, open collared shirt and a jumper, he was more casually dressed than Q had ever seen him, but still looked lethal. Q tried to imagine him handling a vacuum cleaner and his brain froze up with the effort. “Um, well, since you’re here to help. I have a bookcase that needs moving.”

They went to Naomi’s room. “She wants this out of here and into the other spare room. She needs the room for another desk.”

“What does she do?” James asked, walking up to the bookcase and assessing the task. “This is a behemoth.”

“Hence the reason it’s still here. I was going to hire someone. And I don’t want to tell you what she does, if you don’t mind. No offence intended.”

“None taken. How do you want to approach this?”

The move took three hours, because the wall where the bookcase was to go against needed its wallpaper repairing, and then when they shuffled the other furniture, more necessary repairs were discovered. They took a time out for tea and some of the cake Q had bought. Then he thought he may as well take advantage of the help to hang some of the pictures still in storage.

“These weren’t part of your inheritance, were they?” James said, looking at a black and white photo of an owl in snow.

“No, those were all sold to pay the tax, and half the furniture. We’re been accumulating replacements—well, my sister has, with help from my parents—but I never have time to hang them. And Naomi’s shorter than me, and, well.” He shrugged. “At least we can make a start.”

They worked all day, stopping for a brief lunch, and at four, for tea. James slumped into a kitchen chair, looking much older than his forty-eight years, but happy enough once he had a mug of tea in front of him.

“Is this how you imagined civilian life?” Q asked, settling down to drink his tea.

“Not in the least.”

“There’s a deficiency of attractive female company for a start,” Q joked, and then could have bitten his tongue off for his insensitivity.

James shrugged, apparently unbothered by Q’s crassness. “You make a reasonable substitute.”

Q knew when someone was winding him up. A former ‘James Bond’ could come up with better lines than that. “Ta very much. You’re not remotely my type, and I can’t imagine I’m yours.”

James gave him an up and down look. “I could be persuaded,” he said with a lazy smile. “What is _your_ type?”

“Not you, for sure. The new 007 is much more my style.” Q belated realised James may not have known. “I’m gay, actually.”

“ _Mazel tov_. So, not tempted by Moneypenny?”

“No. For one thing she’s my work colleague and for another, she’s a friend.”

“Can’t have people shagging friends,” James said, still with that infuriating smile. “Where would it end?”

“Tosser.”

“Prude.”

The only response to that was to stick his tongue out, and Q refused to do that. His phone ringing saved him having to. “Bill?”

“We have a lead in Prague. Is Murray with you? Put me on speaker if he is.”

Q obeyed. “Commander, what do you know about Blofeld’s connections in Prague?” Bill asked.

“Nothing. You have a lead? Already? That’s convenient.”

“We traced a connection from one of the dead prison guards.”

“ _Very_ convenient. You realise he’s perfectly capable of setting a trap without being anywhere near it.”

“If you have a better suggestion, I’d be glad to hear it.”

James shook his head. “He doesn’t,” Q advised. “005 and 006?”

“Already gone. They should be in the air as we speak.”

“I don’t like it,” James said. “Smells wrong.”

Q agreed, though he had no clearcut reason to offer.

“It’s all we have, commander.”

“Why don’t you let me look at the file?”

“Absolutely not. We have enough bloody leaks as it is.” James’s eyes narrowed dangerously at Tanner’s words. “Do you have any information to offer?”

“The killers left a message to me on Madeleine’s body. Written on it.” James’s mouth twisted in what looked like revulsion

Q jerked. “You didn’t tell me that,” he whispered. James only shrugged..

“Do you have a photo?” Bill asked. When James said he had, he asked Q to send it along. Q set to acquiring it from James’s phone. “You could have mentioned it this morning, 00...commander.”

“You were so damn anxious to put me in my place, I hardly got the chance, Tanner. Is there any hint that Blofeld or SPECTRE know I’m in England?”

“Not yet.”

“That could be useful. I mean, if they were to become aware.”

Q tugged at his sleeve. “Excuse me, I don’t fancy them turning up here.”

“Don’t panic, Q,” James said.

“I’ll consider the idea, commander, but I rather agree with Q. Putting him or you in danger is not what this is about.”

“As you wish,” James said, and Q, who had ended up watching _The Princess Bride_ after Tanner’s ‘dread pirate Robert’ remark months before, couldn’t help a grin. James caught his expression, and smiled back.

“Unlikely,” Bill said. “Q, stay alert. Commander, do behave yourself. M asked me to tell you that personally.”

“Then he undoubtedly knows how much use it is to say it, Tanner. Say hello to the old man for me.”

“Of course. Be careful, lads.” Bill rang off.

Q opened the acquired image of the note on his phone. ‘Too bad, James’. Scored into the dead woman’s back. He swallowed back his disgust. “Nice people.”

“Yes. Quite charming.”

James didn’t look at Q’s phone. Q couldn’t blame him. He sent the hideous photo to Bill’s phone, and then took the battery out of James’s old one. “I hope you had this turned off the whole time.”

“I was sucking eggs before you were a gleam in your grandfather’s eye, Q.”

“Yes, I suppose. I agree with you, by the way. About it smelling wrong.”

“These people don’t make that kind of unforced error. I’m surprised Tanner is that credulous.”

“I’m surprised you believe he is, James. 005 and 006 aren’t fools either.”

“No. I suppose I just feel it should be me.”

“You gave away that choice, remember? And frankly, you’re no longer the best we have. Even the new 007 hasn’t enough experience.”

James made a face. “If Tanner would just let me see the files, I might be able to give some advice. Clues they missed.”

“I agree. And for what it’s worth, I can’t see you being a traitor. But Bill has to make the call, and it _has_ been nine months.”

“And I was part of MI6 for over fifteen years.” Bond took his mug over to the sink to wash. “Throwing agents away like this is how we ended up with Raoul Silva. So we’re only weapons, but what’s the point of just wasting us?”

“Silva was involved in unauthorised hacking. That’s why the previous M sacrificed him.”

James made a sound of disgust. “That’s what she said anyway. Although the fact he was gay made the decision a lot easier. If I’d told her I was bi, I’d have been dead years ago. She tried hard enough to get me killed as it was.”

“Deliberately?” Q asked, shocked.

“No, part of the job. But she wasn’t half a bloody thirsty old battleaxe.”

“I know she didn’t like gay men. She didn’t like me because of it.”

James sat again. “Part of it was the era she came from. You know, Blunt, Burgess, Maclean, all that lot. Gays being seen as the weak link, prone to treason, cowardly and feeble-minded. But she had plenty of proof in her own agents that the stereotype was crap, and she still couldn’t quite drop the prejudice. She was happy enough for any of us to shag whoever we had to in the field, but she didn’t want any ‘poofs’ acting on that in our private lives. So I didn’t. Men could be friends, but not lovers. She’d have known if they were.”

“Is Mallory like that?”

“No idea. Don’t care now. I can do what I like, and isn’t it grand?” The bitterness could have curdled milk in the jug in front of Q.

“Will you ever be able to stop running?”

“When Blofeld is dead. SPECTRE won’t give a shit about me when he’s gone. I’m not a player any more.”

“Six don’t want him dead if they can help it. He’s a lever.”

“A lever they can’t keep hold of. Bloody brilliant. So,” James said, smiling with an obvious effort. “What’s next?”

“Nothing. I’m knackered. I bought steak and kidney pies for supper, and apple pie and custard for after.”

“You don’t cook much?”

“Not any more. When Grand-Mère was alive and needing care, we both cooked for her and it had to be to her standards or she wouldn’t eat it. But I’m so often just here on my own now, it’s easier just to reheat, or throw things together. Why, are you insisting on _cordon bleu_?”

“Perhaps tomorrow night,” James said, grinning. Q couldn’t help grinning back.

 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

They kept off the sensitive subject of the mission in Prague, and of SPECTRE in general for the rest of the evening. The pies of both kinds were deemed acceptable, and with a full stomach and a sense of accomplishment, Q could even consider himself satisfied with the day and his unexpectedly congenial companion. He still had no idea if he was seeing another act, or the real James, but he didn’t much care. This situation was temporary and he had endured far worse at Six’s command.

One thing puzzled him, though. “When did _you_ watch _The Princess Bride_?”

“What the hell are you on about, Q?” James looked at him as if Q had turned green and sprouted leaves. “Are you feeling quite well?”

“Sod off,” Q muttered.

The easiest way to explain was just to shove the DVD on and James could work it out for himself. Or leave the room in disgust, if it was too trivial. But James watched politely, at first with no apparent interest, then with a chuckle or two, and then muttered “well he’s right about that” when Vizzini mentioned the “land war in Asia” mistake. He smiled pretty much all the way through the second half of the movie, and made no move to leave the room once it was over.

“Bill said the 007s were like the dread pirate Robert. I didn’t get it until I looked it up.”

“Ah. He’s quite right. But I assure you I’m no Wesley to Tanner’s Princess Buttercup.”

That shocked a snort of laughter out of Q. “ _Must_ you put that image into my mind?”

“You started it, Danny boy.”

“Please don’t call me that.” Q got up to take the DVD out of the machine and put it away.

James raised an eyebrow. “School bullies?”

“Yes.” As well as a patronising teacher Q had loathed. “But Bill couldn’t give me a sensible explanation as to why the 007s kept the name.”

“Oh, none of the double-ohs use their real name while in service. There were at least two Alec Trevelyans until the last proved to be a traitor. I thought it was a good joke at the time. Don’t read too much into it.”

“Hell of a lot of baggage to hang on a newcomer, though.”

“It’s not mandatory. I was asked, and agreed, and your new chap will have done the same. It’s funny to see how the myth has grown. I’ve met agents who think I seduced a maid at Eton. Eton? I joined the Navy at sixteen. Eton was the first one, I think. I wasn’t even born when he was in the service.”

“You leave a lot to live up to.”

“We all have. It’s all we have, in the end. A reputation and minimal gratitude from the government. A private burial and an official cause of death as ‘heart attack’. Even M died of a ‘heart attack’.”

Q winced. That had been a bloody, nasty operation, and a dead head of the service at the end of it. “Tea?”

“Why not?”

They went to bed not long after, and Q’s sleep was free of the nightmares of the previous evening. At least, he didn’t remember any when he woke up to have a pee. Returning to his room, he noticed a light downstairs. None of the alarms had been triggered, and the body heat monitor showed only one body other than his own in the house, so he didn’t put on his holster to go downstairs.

James was back in the living room, wearing Grand-Père’s dressing gown over Grand-Père’s old pyjamas, with a blanket around his shoulders and the cats squeezed on the armchair with them. He was reading, or at least, holding a book. His eyes didn’t seem to be focussed on the page. Q deliberately stepped heavily as he came into the room. The cats jumped down to greet him. “Can’t sleep?” he asked, sitting down in the armchair opposite James’s.

“No. Did I wake you?”

“No, all the tea we drank today did that. Is there anything I can do? Would anything help?”

“I usually rely on booze, pills or sex,” James said, lifting his head to give Q a wry smile.

“Ah. Um...I don’t really do casual—”

James held up his hand. “Slow down, Danny. I’m not asking or offering. I’m not in the mood.”

Seeing your girlfriend in pieces could do that to a man, Q reasoned. “Would company help?”

“God yes, but I can’t ask you to sit with me.”

“And it’s cold down here. Uh...don’t take this the wrong way, but you could sleep in my bed. It’s enormous and maybe it would help?” Q flushed. “This sounds like a really pathetic pick up line.”

“I can give you lesson in those, if you want.” James grinned, and Q smiled back. “Would you mind? I might keep you awake, tossing and turning.”

“I won’t mind. The cats can be our chaperones.”

“The fact you sleep in your grandmother’s bed is more than enough to stay wandering hands, Danny.”

“Just promise me you won’t breathe a word to Bill Tanner. And call me Daniel. I’m not overly fond of ‘Danny’.”

“As you wish.”

Q threw a cushion at his head. One of the most lethal men in the world caught it and just laughed at him.

“You realise this is pretty weird for me,” Q mumbled as they climbed into the enormous bed. “I think my mother may even have been born here.”

“Good thing we weren’t planning to shag, because that’s quite a mood killer,” James whispered, settling in under the pile of quilts and cats. “Comfy. The other one is hard.”

“Oh, sorry. It’s new. I can move you—”

“Christ, stop apologising. It’s fine. I just like this one better. Just to warn you, don’t wake me up by shaking me. That tends not to go well.”

“I can imagine. Please don’t murder my cats if they step on you.”

“Cats and Q are all perfectly safe, I promise. Where’s your gun?”

“On a hook behind the door in its holster. Where’s yours?”

“Other room. Alarms set?”

“Yes, mother. No wonder you can’t sleep. Just cuddle Isaac for a bit and let him do his thing.”

“His ‘thing’?”

“Yeah. Where he purrs like an outboard engine and kneads at your shoulder and next thing you know, it’s time to get up.”

“I like the sound of that.” James reached over to the elderly cat and carefully brought him closer. Isaac was unperturbed. Moses would have objected but Isaac was a big old softie. Q could already hear Isaac purring away. “Good night, Daniel. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, James,” Q said, rolling over. Thank God he wasn’t a cuddler, as far as he knew.

When had his life become so strange that sharing a bed with a former assassin because the assassin was having trouble sleeping wasn’t even on the list of the ten oddest things he’d done for Queen and country?

 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

Hyperaware of the man next to him, and unused to company in his bed, Q would have sworn he would never have slept, and yet he did, unaware of being awake for more than a few minutes after James joined him. When he woke, both man and cats were gone, but before Q could decide to go in search, James appeared in the doorway with Isaac in his arms, and Moses at his feet. “I fed them, since they were complaining. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, uh....” Q sat up and rubbed his eyes before reaching for his glasses. “Usually they wake me up.”

“This time they decided I was their slave. Go on,” James said, setting Isaac on the bed, so Q could scratch under his chin. Moses jumped up, looking for attention.

“Hmmm, either you’ve been suborning their affection or they think you’re a softer touch than me.”

“No suborning. Cats don’t even usually like me.”

James was still wearing the dressing gown. That had to be it. “Then you’re a soft touch,” Q said, smiling. “Did you sleep?”

“I did. Thank you.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “You must think I’m losing my mind.”

“For insomnia or taking me up on the offer to share?”

“For being so...unprofessional.”

“You’re not a professional anymore.”

James’s stance turned from relaxed to on edge in a second. “You think not being an agent is like flipping a switch? That the hypervigilance and paranoia just goes away?”

“I never said that, James,” Q said carefully, wondering if he was dealing with a double-oh meltdown, and how quickly he could reach his phone. “I just saw someone in a bloody horrible situation needing help. As your host and your former Quartermaster, I wanted to give that. But I don’t judge you for it.”

James rubbed his hand over his hair. “Christ, now I’m scaring you. Sorry. I just want to _do_ something.”

“So do I. But it’s not the first or hundredth time we’ve had to wait for more information, is it?” Q climbed out of bed, causing the cats to protest. “Oh hush. You’ve been fed and cuddled, what more do you want?”

“Who are you asking?” James said, but grinning.

“All of you. Tea?”

“I’ve made it, actually.”

“Good man. Now can I dress or are we going for the full attachment parenting?”

James gave him the finger and left. The cats followed. Q shook his head at their defection, then checked his phone. No texts. Still waiting for reports from Prague then. He logged on and quickly scanned the reports from Q-branch. Surprisingly calm, given the situation. He left a department-wide memo that he may have to work from home the next day, and he was contactable in the usual way. That shouldn’t be a problem—he’d done it before, when he was ill or needed to wait in for a plumber. Peter Sandiford and Jason were monitoring the double-ohs in Prague. Oh, and Susan had finally managed to be assigned to 007. She was entirely smitten, unfortunately. Q only hoped when the inevitable happened, the result wouldn’t disrupt productivity too much.

James had not only made tea but readied the toaster and set the table. “Thank you,” Q said, pleased and surprised.

“I didn’t know if you usually had a cooked breakfast on Sundays.”

“No. Not really a thing for us. If you could leave the house, we could go into the village, but....”

“I can’t. I hope you’ve got a list of jobs to do today because I might go just a little stir-crazy otherwise.”

James had at least once spent three days in a storeroom waiting for a target, so Q didn’t think much of his complaint. “You have the garden. Eat breakfast and I’ll see what I can occupy your aging musculature with.”

“One day you’ll be middle-aged too, Daniel.”

“Fortunately my muscles are not important in my job. Eat.”

Q racked his brains for something that would keep a highly trained former killer busy. The problem was that they had done almost everything he had hoped for the previous day, and the other tasks would have to wait for the spring. A walk on the heath would be wonderful, but James had to stay out of sight. “How unrecognisable can you make yourself with hat and scarf?”

“Pretty well. But Tanner said I wasn’t to go out.”

“Pffft. If I’m with you and we’re only on the heath, how much danger could you be in?”

“Firearms?”

“For me, not you. I have a gun license in my own name. Worth the risk? I leave it to you to decide.”

James remained quiet. Q calmly ate his toast and drank his tea. Entertainment wasn’t part of the job, but it _was_ part of being a decent host. And he was going a little stir-crazy too.

After the teapot was drained and the clutter cleared, Q turned to James. “Well?”

“I think it’s okay. I’d like to. God, listen to me—grateful for a stroll. I sound like my grandfather.”

“Nonsense, you’re not quite old enough for that.” He dodged a play grab. “I’m telling Tanner, though. No point in behaving as if we’re in a horror movie.” At James’s puzzled look, he added, “You know, going into the creepy haunted mansion alone despite all the warnings, not telling anyone where they are, etcetera etcetera?”

“You’d be amazed how little popular media I’ve managed to consume, Q.”

Q called Bill while they were finished their tea. “Any updates?”

“Not yet. How’s our boy?”

“Troubled. And bored. I’m going to take him up on Hampstead Heath for a walk. Incognito, naturally.”

Bill, surprisingly had no objection. “Take a tracker and your gun.”

“Of course. Any sign of anyone looking for him here?”

“No sign of anyone looking for him at all, but if we could detect such signs, we wouldn’t be in the situation we’re in now.”

“He thinks he should look over the files. Bill, I think there’s a good argument for it.”

“I’ll put it to M. Enjoy the walk, check in when you get back.”

Q went to his room and put his holster on, his personal tracker in his shoe, and found a spare scarf and woolly hat for James. He found his guest downstairs. “Papa Bear happy to let me out?” James asked.

“Yes, Goldilocks is allowed to go for a walk. Put these on, and this in your pocket.” He handed James another tracker. “Don’t drop it in a drink or Whitestone pond.”

“It was only the once, Q. I’ve saved hundreds of lives, captured or killed dozens of Britain’s enemies, but I fuck up one earwig....”

Q grinned. “So there _are_ bits of popular culture you’re familiar with.”

“Just the worst bits, unfortunately. Shall we go?”

Despite the disguise, despite the lack of CCTV on the heath, James was clearly uncomfortable being so exposed once they were actually out in the open. “We can go back,” Q said. It was snowing lightly, but the lack of wind meant it was tolerable walking weather. It was lovely to be outside, but it wasn’t worth losing a life over.

“I’m fine, ignore me. You know, I’ve never been up here before.”

“Really? I thought you loved London.”

“I do. But I didn’t have a lot of opportunities to really explore it.”

“Well then, let me show you.”

They climbed Parliament Hill, and Q told James the history behind the name as they walked. At the top, the City of London was arrayed before them, wreathed in fog. “Isn’t she a beauty,” James breathed. “You grew up here? In Hampstead?”

“No, in Dulwich, but we visited often and stayed overnight at least once a month. When Grand-Père died, I moved in with Grand-Mère to be closer to University, and to look after her. Naomi moved in too, the next year. And then Grand-Mère died. My parents are already well off, so she left the house to us two. Shame about the inheritance tax—they had a lovely collection of paintings and books, and some exquisite pieces of decorative art which we had to sell. We still had to come up with a rather large sum of money between us, but it’s worth it. I love that house. I love this area.”

“Don’t blame you. I had rather different feelings about that pile in Scotland. Burning it down felt good, in fact.”

“Shame. Come on, there’s lots more to see. Did you know Richard Burton used to live in Hampstead? And John Constable, Hugh Gaitskell, and Sigmund Freud?”

“Freud—The Cat in the Hat?”

“No, that’s Dr Seuss. For heaven’s sake, James.” He looked at his companion, and found the little of James’s face that was visible, crinkled in a grin. “You can be a such a shit sometimes.”

“I don’t believe you’ve just discovered this.”

“No, don’t. This way.”

The heath was full of people and dogs. Q and James were just another pair of anonymous bodies taking in the crisp, cold air, and James gradually relaxed. No one paid them any attention, which was London’s way. Another reason to love the city, Q thought. They reached Wood Pond and Q was just about to suggest going up to the Spaniards when his phone rang. “Bill?”

“Q, I need you to come in. The commander too.”

“To Six?”

“No, to M’s house. We can’t risk him being seen. I know your location. Go to the pub and wait outside. A car is on its way.”

“Understood. What’s happened?” He motioned James to follow him.

“Everything’s gone tits up. You can give him the satisfaction of telling him he was right.”

 _Bugger_. Q rang off, and pocketed his phone. “We’ve been called in.”

“Both of us?” James, like Q, was walking quickly but not so much as to arouse suspicion.

“Yes. He said to tell you that you were right.”

“Fuck.”

“Quite.”

A black car stopped in front of them just as they reached the Spaniards, and the driver flashed his MI6 ID. James kept his scarf high and the hat on as they were driven along the North Circular towards M’s Richmond home. Q logged into Six’s network on his phone but there was no report that he could see. Whatever had happened was too sensitive to put onto the servers.

James’s fingers were tense against his thighs. Q doubted he took any comfort from his theory being proved correct. He found himself wanting to put his hand over James’s to comfort him, but stopped himself. _Boundaries, Daniel_ , he told himself. Not to mention sheer self-preservation.

And also, where the _hell_ had that come from?

 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

M’s grand Victorian house had a very private entrance behind huge gates. As the car swept into the gravel drive, Eve ran out to meet them. She hugged James before the poor man had even gained his footing.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. James held her tight. “It’s just not fair, what happened to her.”

“Fairness is nothing to do with us, though, is it, Moneypenny?” James gently released himself. “You look as ravishing as ever.”

“Thank you. Q? Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. It’s the commander here who’s been having a time of it. Not the retirement anyone would want, is it?”

She frowned at Q, then looked at James. “No,” she said sadly. “Come in. I’m afraid it’s a bloody disaster.”

They were scanned for weapons, and Q’s gun was confiscated. The service didn’t plan on losing another head of department to a rogue, he guessed. Eve led them to the drawing room. M and Bill Tanner rose to greet them. “Commander?” M said. “I had hoped to see you again under better circumstances.”

“You had hoped never to see me again at all, M,” James said, but without too much animosity. “What’s happened?”

Q and James were invited to sit at a table. Eve had a laptop out, and Bill had the files in front of him. Bill led the briefing. “006 is dead, and 005 seriously injured. They walked into a trap, even though they expected a trap, planned for one, were taking every precaution. But SPECTRE were ahead one step all the way.”

“And Blofeld?”

“Not a word,” Bill said. “We gained exactly nothing from this mission except one dead and one disabled double-oh, three other dead personnel, and a big fat black eye for Six.”

M kept his eye on James the entire time. “Comment, commander?”

“None, sir. Other than I told you so.”

“We already knew it was too convenient, commander,” Bill snapped irritably. He looked as if he had had very little sleep at all.

“Then what more do you want me to say? As every man and his dog...cat keeps pointing out, I’ve been out of the game too long.”

M opened a folder and drew out a photo. He pushed it towards James. “What do you make of that?”

James’s lips thinned. Q, seeing what the photo contained, turned away. “A message. Like the one left on Dr Swann.”

“‘Next time send JAM’,” M said. “‘JAM’ for ‘James Bond’?”

“No, ‘JAM’ for ‘James Arthur Murray’. Me, in other words. So are you going to send me after him, or use me as bait?”

“Neither,” M said. “At least, we don’t want to use you as bait, and it would be reckless in the extreme to send you into the field again. You weren’t fully fit for duty even before the last mess, and you’re past it now. I say that with no offence intended, of course.”

James’s mouth quirked. “None taken. You’re hardly the first to say so recently.” Q kept his expression as bland as possible. “So...what?”

“If Blofeld wants to draw you out, can you think what he might try?”

“You mean, other than dismembering my lover and this?” He indicated the photo of 005’s mutilation. “He’s hardly going to try pulling my pigtails, is he?”

Q interrupted. “What about your shared history? From your childhood? Moneypenny, who owns the Skyfall estate now?”

James turned to look at him, eyes wide in surprise. “Why didn’t I think of that?” he said quietly. Q shrugged. James had had a lot of other stuff to worry about.

Eve took a minute to do her search. “The estate was sold to an American after you were reported dead. When the lodge burned down, the government bought the estate at the previous value to compensate for the financial loss, and then put it on the market. It’s now owned by ESB Holdings, which is based in Glasgow, and is owned by—”

“Blofeld. Whatever name it’s under, it’s him. ‘ESB’ - Ernst Stavro Blofeld. Have we any current satellite imagery?” James said.

“Checking...not in the last six months.”

Q spoke. “Sir, permission to massage a satellite or two to get images?”

M waved his hand. “By all means. That’s why you’re here.” Eve passed the laptop to Q. “Miss Moneypenny, would you ask my housekeeper to organise tea and coffee for us? Unless, commander, you’d prefer—”

“Tea’s fine, sir.”

“Then let’s give our quartermaster some peace. Come with me to my office and we can catch up.”

James raised an eyebrow at that, but he stood and followed M and Bill out of the room. Q registered their departure as background information as his fingers flew, looking for authorisation and coordinates on the satellites currently over the Scotland highlands.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Eve was at his elbow. “Tea?”

“Uh, yes, please.” He found a mug near his hand. “There’s not much, but comparing it with the earlier images, do you see that?”

“Definitely tracks. Infrared?”

“Getting there. It doesn’t look as if any works happening near the lodge. Not above ground, anyway.”

“Bond...um, the commander, mentioned tunnels in his post-mission report.”

“Hmmm.” He concentrated again, looking for signs of terrain disturbance, and sent a request to the British Geological Survey for seismic data for the last three months in that area.

“So, you’ve had him at your place all weekend? That must have been fun.”

Q glanced at Eve. “It was, strangely. I wouldn’t exactly choose to spend my free time that way...but it was okay.”

She nudged him. “Good thing you’re not female.”

“Quite. Eve, I need to concentrate. In fact, if James...I mean, the commander is free, he could help me out here.”

Her eyebrows lifted at the ‘James’ but she rose and went off in the direction of M’s office. Q would be in for a grilling when this was all over.

“Q, what do you have?” James strode towards him, and pulled up a chair to stare at the screen.

“Hint of vehicle tracks and not much more. Tell me about these tunnels.”

“Tunnel, singular. Between the house and there.” He pointed to a place on the image. “Just short of the chapel...hang on, the chapel was never that big. Zoom in?”

“That was there six months ago, if you mean that roof.”

“It wasn’t there six years ago. Eve, when did Blofeld buy the estate?”

“2014.”

“So he’s been working on it since then. Infrared, Q?”

“I tried, but there are no signatures. Doesn’t mean they weren’t there yesterday, just not now.”

M and Bill had entered the room. “Commander? What do you think?”

“I think someone ought to check out the old church. Q, what’s happening underground.”

“I don’t know. I asked for the last three months’ worth of data, but we don’t know how long ago the actual construction goes back. I’ll have to do more comparisons. It’ll take me, oh, an hour? Maybe a little more.”

“Do it,” James ordered, then looked up to see M watching him. “If that’s all right with you, sir.”

“Right now the capture or termination of Blofeld is the most important task this agency has, next to the destruction of SPECTRE. So yes, it’s fine. I hope none of you had plans for the rest of the day?”

“No, sir.” Bill’s expression said otherwise. Eve just looked resigned. “We can’t call anyone else in. If we have a mole, we’ll have to proceed with utmost circumspection. The only people who know what we’re investigating, and what we will do, are in this room right now.”

“What about the double-ohs?” Bill asked.

“Miss Moneypenny?”

“The only one not already embedded is 007,” Eve said.

“Now that’s irony for you,” M murmured. “Bring him in then, Miss Moneypenny.”

“Yes, sir.”

Q could feel her looking at James, without seeing her doing it. And he felt James studiously ignoring her. It was like his own superpower, Q thought.

“Commander, I presume you won’t have a problem assisting him?”

“No, sir. James Bond is dead, long live James Bond.”

“Quite,” M said. “Well, I think we should prepare for a long day and night, gentlemen, Miss Moneypenny.”

People walked in and out. Q paid no attention, concentrating on the image search. A fresh mug of tea arrived, this time from James. “Will the cats be all right?” he asked Q quietly.

“Of course. As long as they have water, they can miss a couple of meals. They’ll take it out on me, I expect.”

“Of course. I could never have had a pet, you know, while I was doing my job.”

“No. Sad, that. Now let me work.”

James wandered away. Q gave the idea of what would make a good pet for an ex-double-oh a few seconds thought, before he shook himself and concentrated again.

Eve reported that New Bond was travelling back from the north of England, and should be with them by tea time. M’s housekeeper kept everyone supplied with tea and sandwiches. M poured himself a whisky, though it mostly sat ignored on the table in front of him.

“Found it,” Q announced. “May, 2014. You can see the construction is underway.” He turned the laptop around, and showed the group.

“What are they building?” M asked.

“It’s not a huge extension,” Bill said. “It could just be a garage.”

“He’s going underground.” James pointed to the roof. “Vents. Too big for a building that size.”

“Where he getting the electricity?” Q wondered. “Eve, have there been any wind turbines applications for the estate, or near it?”

She had found another laptop while Q had been working. “Yes. One was approved in February, 2014, and completed by June that year.” She gave the coordinates.

“That’s about a kilometre from the lodge,” James said. Q located it on the most up to date satellite image. “That and generators could keep them going a while.”

“There’s no heat signature at all, though. Either it’s idle at the moment, or it’s well down.”

“I want that site under twenty four hour surveillance, Q. I want to know if a mouse moves around that shed.”

“Sir,” Bill said, “Even if we prove there is something going on there, we won’t know if Blofeld is there.”

“Send me,” James said. “The mole will tell him. He won’t be able to resist flaunting Madeleine in my face.”

“Or his minion might just write ‘Ha Ha, you’re dead’ with a soldering iron on your chest, commander,” Q said tartly. Every head in the room turned to him. “Are we really going to let him spring another trap on us? The commander is not SPECTRE’s only obsession.”

“But I’m Blofeld’s biggest one,” James said. “Sir, let me go. This is my fight.”

“Balls to that, Commander.” M reached for his whisky, then aborted the move. “We don’t pursue personal vendettas in MI6, and you’ll be in jail faster than you can blink if you try that nonsense again. No one is going up against Blofeld alone.”

“Sir,” James said, his eyes going blank.

Q’s hand went to James’s arm before he realised what he had done. When he did, he decided to move it without any great hurry. James looked at him, eyes softening a little, though he said nothing.

“Long live James Bond,” Eve muttered.

 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

New Bond arrived just before three. Q wasn’t the only one in the room tensed up as Eve went out to greet the agent. James hadn’t said a word in two hours. Bill and M had gone off for private discussions, while Q and Eve scoured satellite data for signs of other construction activity. They found evidence of the power lines coming from the wind turbine, and seismic data from May to July 2014 indicated the use of heavy machinery and explosives in the estate area. James appeared to be correct—it was all happening underground. But _what_ was happening?

Bond was dressed casually, and looked all the hotter for it. Q’s cock twitched despite his best intentions, but whether that was because of Bond’s unforced sexual magnetism, or the prospect of the old bull elephant going to head to head with the fit young lion, he didn’t know. He held his breath as James stood to greet the newcomer. “You must be the commander. Pleased to meet you, sir.” Bond extended his hand.

“Call me James, major. And likewise.” Steely blue eyes met unconcerned brown ones, and if there was any animosity, Q lacked the superpower to detect it. “This is a unique situation, you realise.”

“Yes, I do, James. One I plan to take full advantage of. Your experience is something I would like to learn from.”

“Thank you, 007. That’s enough arse-kissing. I’m not that fragile.”

Bill choked off a laugh. M smiled. “Gentlemen, let’s get on. Bond, take a seat. Bill, please brief on the background, then Q, if you could update us with the current state of knowledge.”

007 had, by chance, seated himself across from James. Eve was enraptured, clearly relishing the potential for clashes. Q placed a bet with himself that she was going to be severely disappointed. She didn’t know post-Six James at all, and he doubted she knew him as well as she thought she did. No one had had the entire picture, even when they thought they had.

007 listened intently to both sets of information. “A sneak attack is going to be difficult on that terrain, yes, James?”

“Definitely. Early morning would be my advice. Cold, tired guards, if there are any, waiting for change of shift. But if they have infrared sensors....”

Q interrupted. “I can help there. We’ve refined infrared cloaking outerwear. Should mask you well enough in the dark. No use during the day. Or summer. The damn things are hot.”

“Useful in a Scottish winter,” M murmured. “How many people, 007?”

“Three—” “Two”

James leaned back. “Sorry. Go ahead, 007.”

“Three, sir. But if the commander thinks two, perhaps we should heard his reasoning?”

M nodded, so James explained. “The terrain is uneven and the more people, the more chance of stumbling and being heard, or just getting in each other’s way. The entrance to the underground facility will be small, in my opinion. Extra bodies are just extra targets. 007?”

“Yes, I agree. Two, sir,” he said to M.

“Three,” Q said. “Two on the ground, one to coordinate communications and sensors. I should go.”

“Not on your bloody life,” James snapped.

“Commander, I believe there’s something to say for that,” 007 said, keeping his voice calm as the old Bond could never have done. M just watched. “Quartermaster, why you?”

“Because of the mole, and because of SPECTRE’s monitoring. Sir, I’m not offering to be a sacrificial lamb. I can do this from a mile, two miles away. Running it from London is too risky.”

“I don’t like it, Q. Miss Moneypenny or another capable agent could do it.” Bill was giving him his best glare.

“With the greatest respect to Miss Moneypenny’s abilities, there’s no one better at this than me.” Q pushed his glasses back on his nose, leaned back and folded his arms. Let them patronise him at their peril.

“Convince me, Q.” M wasn’t happy. “Everyone else, be quiet or go for a walk.”

No one moved. Q cleared his throat, and began to fight his corner.

 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

Two hours later, and after Q’s private talk with M and Bill in M’s office, M called a halt. “Very well. I want time to consider all this, and I think we should all get some rest. Tanner, we need to work out a way to get everyone to Scotland without SPECTRE finding out, and how to kit out the commander without him going into Six. Miss Moneypenny, I need a cover mission plan for 007.”

“Sir.”

“Commander, you’re in Q’s custody I understand. Q, do you think the commander will honour that or do you want us to move him to a safe house?”

“He’s fine at my house, sir.”

“Are you sure, Q?” James turned to him. “Blofeld will make this _very_ personal.”

“Understood, commander. And yes, I’m sure.”

“Very well,” M said. “007, stay away from the office. Miss Moneypenny will be in touch. We have a mole, possibly more. Let’s give them nothing to feed on at all. Q, you’re sick, very sick. Stay home tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir. It’s highly infectious, this _Staphylococcus imaginarium_.”

“Yes, I imagine. One hopes your cats aren’t susceptible. Well, good night. Good work.”

Eve led the way out. “There’s your driver, Q. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

James shook his head at her pointed words. “Moneypenny, I haven’t tortured him, seduced him, or cheated him. Q is tougher than he looks.”

Eve grinned. “That’s me told then.” She kissed Q, then James, on the cheek. “Be careful, gentlemen.”

“Always,” James said. He jammed the woolly hat on his head and wrapped the scarf around his face.

“Onward, Bond of Arabia,” Q said, climbing into the car. Eve waved them off. 007’s sports car left the yard before they did.

“Nice car,” James said.

“Jaguar F type SVR coupé. Five litre V8 engine, 567 horsepower, zero to sixty in three point five seconds, top speed of 188 miles per hour. What did you do with the Aston Martin?” Q asked as they drove off.

“It’s in storage. I’ve reported it to be collected when I advised my location. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Not yet.”

“Make sure you look it up. It cost Madeleine her life.”

“Ah. Of course.” Any smart remark Q thought of making died unborn. “Are you angry with me?”

“Not here,” James said, nodding at the driver.

“I’d rather not row all evening,” Q said.

“Then we won’t.”

“James, please don’t go off half-cocked.”

“I solemnly promise that if I go off, it will be fully cocked or not at all.” And even after the day they had, James still had enough _je ne sais quoi_ to lift his eyebrow and make the remark sound utterly filthy.

Two could play that game. “I look forward to it,” Q purred, putting his hand on James’s thigh, and relishing James’s shock.

_And you probably thought I was a virgin, commander. Not bloody likely._

 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

They were home no later than many of Q’s work nights, so Moses and Isaac were only moderately miffed. Q fed them and James paid them their due of attention. “What will you do if you go on this mission? You could be killed, Q.”

“I’ve arranged things with Eve, James. You can’t use my cats to block me going.”

“Damn,” James said.

“And my sister will be _fine_ , in case you were planning to use her as an argument.”

“Ah. I will just say this and leave it on the table. MI6 needs you a lot more than they need me or 007. You’ve dragged Q-Branch kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century and your job’s not done.”

“But as M said, there is nothing more pressing than capturing Blofeld and stopping SPECTRE. So that is my job.”

“We’ve got bugger all chance of doing either.”

“I know. Hungry?”

Q was not going to thrash this out with James again. They’d done that already and it was no up to M. Q had had a quiet word with Tanner while James and 007 had spent some time going over strategy, and as a result, there was even more reason for Q to go to Scotland than James could know. He didn’t need to know. He wasn’t part of MI6 any more.

“What did you think of our new 007?”

“He’s certainly pretty. M showed me his file. Quite a CV. You’d put your life in his hands?”

“Without hesitation. You were hoping for a fight, weren’t you?” Q rummaged through the fridge. Left over pie, lasagne, soup, salad. Enough choice at least. Pie would do. He went to the cupboard to fetch the plate.

“No, but I wasn’t sure if he was.”

“He’ll be in charge in the field, James. You’ll have no authority over him.”

“As it should be, Q...Daniel. I wonder if he will allow deference to my age to interfere with his best judgement.”

Q raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d want that?”

“My ego is secondary to getting the bloody job done. I don’t like being ordered around by children, but I’ve grown used to it.”

Q bridled, but then James grinned. “Wanker,” Q said, putting plates down on the table with a little more force than necessary. “He’s no child. Afghanistan would make sure of that, if nothing else.”

“I know. He’s older than I was when I joined Six. I’m teasing, Daniel.”

“Well, stop it. There’s pie again. Is that all right?”

“It’s perfect.” James got up to help.

They didn’t discuss the upcoming mission again. James excused himself, saying he wanted some time to think. Q saw him a few minutes later in the living room, surrounded by cats, eyes fixed on nothing, his jaw set determinedly. What preyed most on his mind, Q wondered. The death of 006, the torture of 005, or the prospect of confronting Blofeld again? The mission was supposed to be strictly reconnaissance, but these things had a way of becoming active engagement. Q would not be at the coalface, as it were, but it was not a no-risk operation. The photos of the mutilated women would haunt him whatever happened.

He gave James an hour, then popped his head around the door. “Tea?”

James shook himself. “If you’re having one, thanks.”

Q rather thought a whisky would have been more welcome but there was none in the house even if James hadn’t explained his position on alcohol. James thanked him for the mug of tea, but fell into silent reflection once more. Not wanting to disturb him, or invite a conversation Q didn’t want to have, Q thought about calling Eve, but if she was going to tease him or worse about James staying, he didn’t think he could bear it. There was no one else to whom he could bare his soul, not with the need for secrecy. No one else could know James was here at all, so he couldn’t even ring his mother to talk. He glanced at his watch. Nine—early for him, but an early night might do him good.

“Since I’m so dreadfully ill, I should go to bed,” he said.

“What? Oh, yes, the dreaded bug. Good night, then. Thank you for putting up with me.”

“You’ve been remarkably civilised for a double-oh.”

“Thanks, I think.” James smiled, but his eyes were still distant. Q wouldn’t want his memories for a million quid.

He had a shower, and read in bed for a few minutes, but his mind wasn’t on the book. He was about to turn out his light when he saw James hovering hesitantly by the door. “James? Are you all right?”

“Yes. Uh...I was just wondering....”

“Oh. Sleep wherever you can get to sleep. Here, there, I don’t mind,” he said, careful to keep his tone light.

“Here, if you really don’t mind.”

“Plenty of room.”

James came in, took off the dressing gown and hung it behind the door. “Your grandmother must have planned to have a dozen kids sleeping with her.”

“I think she did. But she only had the two in the end and my uncle died childless. Hurry up if you’re getting in, it’s cold.”

James climbed under the covers and Isaac moved up under his chin. “Insomnia-defeating device engaged,” Q said. James smiled. “I suppose now is the time you would normally work your awesome sex magic on me to change my mind, like you usually do with your women.”

“‘Awesome sex magic’? Is that how Q-branch describes my seduction techniques?”

“Think smaller words unfit for small children.”

“Ah. I don’t think my technique would work on you. You’ve already made it clear I’m not your type. Waste of my time trying.”

Q had regretted that statement almost as soon as he’d made it, the more so seeing old and new Bonds together. New Bond was gorgeous and definitely Q’s type, but there was a testosterone-laden charm about James that promised both strength and finesse, an aura that was quite unforced although the man was more than happy to use it when needed. Q didn’t know whether to be flattered that his opinion was enough to halt the sex machine in its tracks, or insulted that his own charms weren’t enough for James to attempt to overcome Q’s alleged distaste.

But then he remember the ‘not in the mood’ from the night before, and thought it was remarkably self-centred of him to assume James has any wish for intimacy. If Dr Swann’s death hadn’t been enough on its own, the photos from the briefing today were enough to kill any desire stone cold dead.

“Sleep well,” Q said, and turned out the light.

“Thanks,” James said, and then the only sound was Isaac’s industrial level purr.

 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

Two days later, Q rode the Paddington Express to Heathrow while James took the Tube. 007 drove, leaving his car in storage, and collected the hire car they would drive to Scotland, breaking their journey outside Carlisle. 007 drove with Q spelling him. James was under strict orders not to take command of the vehicle or to sit in the front seat, the better to avoid motorway cameras. The order clearly chafed, but he’d refrained from commenting on 007’s spotless driving. Once Q took over, the muttering began. Q ignored it, and put the volume of the music up until he couldn’t hear it. “Lovely day for it,” he shouted at 007. “Not a bad car, for a hire.”

“Pity we couldn’t hire a better driver,” Q heard James say over the top of the music.

“I think you should slow down a bit, Q. No point getting there before nightfall,” 007 said, and grinned madly as they heard a groan from the back seat.

“Did you hear something, Bond? Perhaps I should pull over and check the tyres.”

“You do not need to check the bloody tyres!” James yelled. “Bloody hell, Q, you drive like an old woman.”

“Never had a ticket in my life, James.”

“You don’t own a car, that’s why.”

“I don’t actually have a license either. But my fake identity does.” Q had done all the training, including the advanced defensive course, and regularly spun high powered vehicles around the test track in Harrow. But he couldn’t be bothered sitting for the real thing.

“Bond, you should take over and keep him away from the wheel.”

“What was that, commander? Sorry, I can’t hear you that well.” 007 turned up _Radiohead_ again. Q stuck to precisely seventy miles per hour, and passed other cars with the greatest decorum. In the rear view mirror, James was turning red from frustration. Poor baby.

Fortunately James and Q had both slept extremely well before they departed London. Q couldn’t explain it, and James refused to discuss it, which was fine by Q. Whatever worked, was his motto. He was officially on sick leave for the rest of the week, which kept him away from the mole, but meant Bill had to arrange equipment for 007’s mythical mission without letting on he was supplying three people, not one. He also had to make discreet arrangements on Q’s behalf, and create new identities for three people without using official channels. Eve worked until the wee hours on Monday helping him, and 007 was able to collect the gear from Six before departing to France—or so it was believed, officially.

Q thought he and James had escaped London without notice. If they had been traced, then the job would be a bust from the start. Or worse, a suicide mission for all three of them. 007, when they stopped for fuel and a comfort break, refused to admit that possibility. “You have two of the best spies the country has to offer, and the brightest mind possibly on the planet barring Stephen Hawking. I believe in our success.”

James had walked off from the two of them at that remark, ostensibly to use the men’s room. Q looked at 007. “Not one of nature’s optimists, I fear.”

“Nor am I, Q. I’m not an idiot. I saw the photos of 005 and 006. I won’t allow that to happen to either of you.” He put his hand on Q’s shoulder. “Trust me.”

“I don’t think I can, Bond. Ingrained habit from dealing with the old one.”

007 smiled. “And yet you allow him into your home. Strange demonstration of distrust, old man.”

“It’s complicated, okay?”

“I’m sure. Do you want to go fetch him or shall we let him sulk?”

“Give him time. This is going to be a difficult couple of days. Although, surprisingly, it’s also fun.”

“You mean, listening to the old dog growling and him being unable to do anything about it?”

Q grinned. “Yes, that’s part of it. You have no idea what he can do to vehicles. I’m so glad he’s not allowed to drive.”

“I’ve read the reports, and thus, so am I.”

007 really did have such a nice smile, Q thought, sighing internally. But he was a colleague, and so, off limits.

James stomped back ten minutes later. “Shall we?” he said, mouth tight.

“Oh, I haven’t been to the loo myself,” Q said. “Back in a mo.”

James’s grunt of irritation was the wind beneath Q’s wings as he walked over to the restrooms.

He didn’t plan on poking James all day, and gradually, under the influence of some ‘granddad music’ as 007 put it, and 007’s slightly more adventurous driving, James’s mutterings of annoyance died away. Although that might have been because they were getting closer to Scotland, to the highlands, and to James’s childhood home, or what was left of it. Q knew very little of James’s early years, except the bits that had intersected with missions.

Strange how much time they had spent together over the last four days, and how little of James’s history Q had learned, even though James had given the appearance of being quite open about things. Again Q had forgotten who he had been dealing with. _What_ he’d been dealing with. James, like all the double-ohs gave away exactly as much as necessary for a mission and no more. Q had been James’s mission, and nothing else. He needed to remember that, and stop being sentimental about the possibility of a friendship or anything else. The double-ohs had no friends on the job, only assets and targets. For now, Q was an asset to James.

That realisation made him cool on the subject of accommodation when they reached the hotel. A single and a twin had been arranged. James thought he would have the single room, but 007 reminded him that the rules of the mission were that James was to be with one of them the entire time, for protection. “Protection, my left ball,” James muttered. “Then I’ll bunk with Q.”

“Actually I’d like the single, unless Peter,”—007’s mission identity—“objects. I have work to do.”

James gave Q an unreadable look—could have been irritation, could have been offence—but Q pretended not to notice. “I’m fine with that, William,” 007 said. “James?”

“Whatever,” James snapped, walking off.

“Better sleep with your sidearm, ‘Peter’,” Q advised. “I’ll see you upstairs.”

A late checkout the next more allowed a sleep in, as it would be a long night to follow, but Q was up early for breakfast and a few calls to Bill Tanner and others, and didn’t see Bond or James until one o’clock in the foyer. James’s sour expression and the fixed smile on 007’s face didn’t bode well.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I trust you are all well rested and perky?”

“Fuck off,” 007 said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “You never told me he snored.”

“And how would I know that, ‘Peter’?” Surely James wouldn’t have told anyone about their arrangements at Q’s house?

“There are people in Taunton who know he snores.”

“I’m right here,” James said, unamused. “Can we get this circus on the road?”

Q thought it wisest to let 007 drive and James have the choosing of the music. Poking bears wasn’t his idea of fun, and if 007 put Lady Ga Ga on again, James might just shoot him.

James _hadn’t_ snored at Q’s house. But snoring was a known side effect of sedatives. Did James have a stash, and had he had to resort to them last night? Q regretted being such a tosser over the room arrangements. It would have cost him nothing to have shared with James, and it likely had been stressful for James to have shared with his alter ego. Q had assumed that James could cope with any arrangement, anywhere. It was what double-ohs did.

But he wasn’t a double-oh any more.

Q didn’t dare ask about pills, at least not until this mission was over. Once it was, James would be given a brand new identity and a new life, probably in America. Or Greenland. Q wasn’t privy to the fine details.

The weather, threatening snow and sleeting a little when they left Carlisle, became outright nasty as they drove north and they lost the daylight. 007 drove through sleet, driving rain, and patches of dense fog. Even with a driver this skilful, Q found himself clutching the chicken handle more often than he liked. James sat bolt upright in the back, tense and watchful. That wasn’t likely to be because to the weather.

By ten o’clock they had reached the area where they planned to stop, a secluded lay-by a mile and a half from the ruin of Skyfall Lodge. “I can’t see a damn thing out there,” Q said, peering into the sleet and darkness. “Even the night vision goggles will struggle.”

“If we can’t see, they can’t see,” 007 said. “Commander, you believe the path is still accessible?”

“Yes. Not pleasant, mind you, but we can get through.”

“Excellent. Well, gentlemen, we should get some sleep. Q, wake us all at two.”

Within minutes, Q was the only one awake, or at least, not pretending to sleep. He had a job to do—monitor the traffic near them, watch the satellite for signs of activity. This night’s surveillance was costing MI6 a fortune in satellite fees, but that wasn’t Q’s problem.

They had a thermos of coffee with them, but he left that for the other two since he disliked the taste. He took a caffeine tablet and kept busy, his laptop under a blackout hood to prevent any passing traffic from noticing them. Not that there was any. In four hours not a single vehicle passed them, and there was nothing at the SPECTRE site to report. Was this mission to be a complete washout?

At two o’clock, a quiet alarm on Q’s laptop went off, designed to rouse two dangerous men without shocking them. The speed with which they came to life made Q suspect they hadn’t been asleep. 007 stretched carefully. “Right, are we ready, Q? Commander?”

“Situation quiet, 007. I’m ready.”

“Same here,” James said. “Let’s get dressed.”

The blocking gear would cover all but their faces, which were too small—and in this weather, too cold—to be easily seen by infrared cameras. Heat build-up would normally be an issue but in this freezing temperature, it would be a bonus. 007 and James wore night vision goggles and earpiece, and each carried a semiautomatic pistol and Remington rifle, a hunting knife, and listening devices to plant at the building if it was safe to do so. None of them had any good idea of what they might find—the place could be empty, it could be thrumming with activity underground, or there might only be a skeleton guard with nothing much happening. It would take the two men an hour to reach it, given the conditions. Q would be in contact with them through their earpieces, and had orders to get out of the area if they weren’t back by six—or if he determined they were both down. He didn’t know if he would be able to obey that order if their situation was unknown.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” he said as they opened the door to leave.

“And bring back the equipment in one piece,” 007 added.

“Commander, that means you.”

James saluted Q in the mirror. “I’ll do my best.”

“I was afraid of that. Now off you go.”

Their microchips showed clearly on Q’s screen. The sleet had stopped but it was now snowing hard. Q shivered in his warm clothes, and wished he had a cat or two to keep him company.

Once he was sure 007 and James were solidly on their intended path, he activated his own tracker, which could be followed back in the office. Bill Tanner should be the only one monitoring him. He also put on the tracker ring and slipped a pen into his inner pocket. Then all he could do was wait.

Half an hour later, he jumped when someone tapped on the window. He shut the laptop, and wiped the condensation off the window. “Yes? Oh” A pistol was aimed at his face.

“Get out,” the man said.

Q contemplated his options, kicked his heel hard against the car floor to activate the emergency alarm, then opened the door. “What’s this about? Are you the police?”

Two other men seized him roughly, his arms jerked painfully behind him and his wrists cuffed, while the first grabbed his laptop. “Explain yourselves!” he said, pretending he had no idea who they were and where they had come from.

“Shut it,” one of them said, whacking him across the face, making his lip bleed. “Grab the ring.” His hand was gripped, the ring roughly removed and then thrown away onto the heath. “Now move.”

He was pushed along, stumbling along in the dark, being thumped in the back whenever his feet failed to find a sure footing. His shoulders began to hurt from being yanked so hard. He estimated they walked no more than two hundred metres to a Range Rover hidden near a clump of bushes. He was shoved onto the back seat, head covered with a bag, and one of his attackers keeping a pistol between his shoulder blades. Anyone would think he was dangerous, Q thought. At least they hadn’t taken his glasses.

They drove for eight minutes. When he was pulled out of the vehicle, he smelled something earthy. Manure, maybe. Nothing indicated they were in a town. Perhaps a farmhouse. That would make sense. They could get on with...whatever they were going to get on with...and no one would notice a thing.

He was dragged along over gravel and mud until his feet hit smooth stone—paving, he thought. Then wood, and the temperature increase and sound echoes indicated in he was now inside. A house? He couldn’t feel a draft, so not a garage or barn.

He was dumped onto a chair and his ankles tied to the legs of it before the hood was removed. He tried not to blink helplessly into the light. He was in a kitchen. Definitely a farmhouse, and currently occupied, going by the clutter on the shelves, the food on the table and dishes in the sink. Were the owners in on it or being held somewhere else in the house?

A man in a collarless suit stood in front of him, flanked by two chunky guards. Q smiled. “Ah, Herr Oberhauser. I thought we might meet tonight.”

One of the thugs yanked his head back to punish him, then shoved it forward. Blofeld didn’t react, however. “And you are the famous Q, quartermaster of MI6. How are you this evening, Mr Gelberg?”

“Oh fine, fine. Still have that nasty scratch, I see.” He got a vicious slap for that which sent his glasses flying. “Oh dear. I’ll need those if you plan to force me to commit treason for you.”

Blofeld nodded to one of the guards, and the man picked up Q’s glasses. Unfortunately he put them on the top of the fridge, not on Q’s nose. “I hear you’re quite blind without them, Mr Gelberg.”

“Can’t see a bloody thing,” Q lied cheerfully. “So why am I here?”

“It’s not you we want, but you know that. Where is Bond?”

“Oh, around.” A punch in the stomach made him nearly puke. “No need for that,” Q gasped. God that had hurt.

“Perhaps on this computer, we will find a clue?”

Q shrugged. Blofeld motioned for the blond guard to open the laptop behind them on the kitchen table. The man did so. “Needs a code.”

“17007,” Blofeld said without the smallest hesitation. The thug typed it in, and Q was quite satisfied to hear the explosion and the subsequent scream.

“It blew my fucking hand off! My hand!”

“Deal with it,” Blofeld snapped to the other guard. From the sounds, the two of them left the room, one helping the other out. “How nasty of you, Mr Gelberg. Very unpleasant.”

“Well, yes. Your informant forgot to mention the biometric sensor in the trackpad. Careless of them.”

“Indeed. But since we can’t use it to track Bond, you can either tell me how we can do it, or I can just leave a little message for him. On you,” he added, picking up the soldering iron on the countertop. “Which is it to be?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know where he is,” Q said truthfully. “I was following him on the computer but that’s no longer an option, is it? And our communications were through the laptop too. Such a shame.”

“Yes. I wonder if you will be so calm in a few minutes, Quartermaster.” Blofeld opened Q’s coat, and then his cardigan. “How wise. Layers. Of course, in this weather.” He laid the soldering iron down and picked up a hunting knife from the counter. “Your shirt will be all ruined. Sorry.”

“Quite all right. I have lots.”

Q tried not to flinch as the knife cut through the layers of thermal and shirt, and then into his skin which stung like hell. “Oh no, I’ve spoiled that perfect white surface. Never mind. Cauterisation should stop the bleeding.” Blofeld stared at Q. “Or you could tell me where he is.”

“Nope. Can’t remember to be honest. Memory like a sieve. Getting old.”

Blofeld didn’t appreciate the remark. The expression on his twisted face betrayed no amusement at all. “Well, the night’s getting away from us, and I have other plans.” He reached for the soldering iron, tested the top with a saliva-wetted finger tip. “Ouch. That’s very hot, Mr Gelberg.”

Q was out of quips. All he could do was hope he could hold out long enough, for Bond, for James. No one expected him to hold out forever....

Fucking God that hurt. Fuck fuck fuck buggering fuck shit arse pimple wanking tosspot....

He desperately ran through all the swear words he knew, and when he ran out, he simply screamed, which helped a bit, even if it did give bloody Blofeld satisfaction. “Nearly done,” Blofeld announced cheerfully, as Q bit his lip trying not to yell again. He kept his eyes closed. No need to add to the horror.

A gun shot. Blofeld paused as if thinking what to write next, then something hit the floor. Two somethings, something metal and something...larger.

Q opened his eyes. “Oh there you are,” he said weakly to the man now in front of him. “Nice to see you again, James.”

James held the cut flaps of Q's shirt apart to stare at the damage. “I’m so sorry, Q. God, what a mess.”

“Is he dead?”

“No, unfortunately.”

007 knelt on the floor, cuffing Blofeld, whose grunt indicated regrettable life. “I’ll see to this,” James said to 007. “Go get the rest of them.”

“What about Q, is he—”

“Complete your mission, damn it!” James stood. Q couldn’t see the glare, but the way 007 took off told him the approximate reading on the Richter scale.

James gently put burn gel from his field pack on Q’s injuries, which made them burn more. At his hiss, James murmured, “Sorry,” but didn’t stop. He put a large field dressing over the area, then set to undoing the rope on Q’s legs, and picking open the cuff locks. “Take your time,” he said when he finished, placing his hand lightly on Q’s shoulder. “Stay there for a minute.”

Q couldn’t have stood for ready money. “What about him?” Q nodded at Blofeld on the floor, blood on his shoulder and all down one side. “He’s bleeding out.”

“What a shame,” James said coldly. He touched his earpiece. “Moneypenny?” He listened. “Good work, Eve. James out.”

007 came back in. “All secure, commander.”

“Thank you, 007.”

Blofeld stared up at the two of them. “Who the hell are you?” he said to 007.

James and 007 chorused, “Bond. James Bond,” in perfect sync, and sorry and woeful as Q felt, he couldn’t help but laugh at the confusion on Blofeld’s ugly mug.

Q stayed in the chair. James slapped a dressing on Blofeld’s wounds front and back, obviously not caring much if the bleeding stopped. Q was thankful James hadn’t gone for a head shot since being covering in brain splatter as well as burns would have been deeply unpleasant. He gratefully accepted a couple of ibuprofen James found in a bathroom. James didn’t want give him morphine until the paramedics assessed him.

“Are you okay?” James asked. “The ambulance is coming.”

“I’m fine,” Q said, and it was true, amazingly enough, though he wouldn’t ever want to repeat the experience. “There’s someone wandering around outside without a hand, did you find him?”

007, keeping watch on Blofeld, said, “Yes. You did that?”

“My laptop did.”

“My god, you weren’t joking,” James said, grinning. “A double-oh in the making.”

“Thanks, but no. I like my destruction at some distance from me.”

A minute later, paramedics came to the door, and had to pass both James’s and 007’s inspection before they were allowed in to treat the wounded. One knelt to deal with Blofeld. “Him first,” James said, taking the man by the shoulder and making him look at Q.

“I’ll deal with him, sir,” the second paramedic said, as the first waited for James to release him. “Please step back.”

“I’ll go check outside,” 007 said. James moved back a whole foot and stood watching the paramedic working on Q with a deep frown and folded arms.

“Don’t make me share an ambulance with him.” Q looked up at James. “Blofeld.”

“You won’t,” James said, sending a glare the paramedic’s way. The man continued to deal with Q’s injuries and ignoring the cranky sod behind him.

Q refused to be loaded onto a gurney. “Those things are bloody dangerous,” he insisted, and walked, shakily and with James’s help, out to the ambulance. He found the farmyard lit by mobile flashlights, and filled with armed men in black uniforms. No sign of Blofeld’s thugs—they had probably already been taken away in custody. It wasn’t the end of SPECTRE by a long way but Q felt perfectly satisfied with the result of the night’s endeavours.

“We need to review security arrangements for Blofeld’s custody,” he murmured as James handed him up into the ambulance. Q was glad of the help. Things were a bit wobbly at the moment.

“We do, but first we need you treated. And then you can explain to me a few minor matters about what happened tonight.”

Q watched the paramedic set up a drip. “Need to know, James, need to know.”

“Need to know my arse.” James was riding in the ambulance with him. How nice.

“Well if you say so,” Q said. The paramedic had given him some morphine. It seemed to be having a rather strange effect on Q. “Think I might go to sleep now.”

“You do that, Daniel,” James said quietly, his hand on Q’s arm. “As long as you like. You earned it.”

He woke up as they were unloading him. “Where...?”

“Fort William. And he’s not here. He’s been flown back to London. It’s over, Daniel,” James said.

“Bond?”

“Just behind us, in a police car.”

“Want to talk to Eve.”

“Later,” James said, not unkindly. “Let’s get you—”

“No, now. It’s important.”

James looked at the paramedics. “Can he make a call while he’s being treated?”

“Just let us get him inside. Don’t want anyone to freeze their bollocks off, do we?”

“Heaven forbid,” James said.

It was, Q had to admit, a little warmer inside. “Communications, now.”

“Yes, sir, Q, sir.” James put his earpiece on Q’s ear. “All yours.”

“Eve?”

“Daniel darling, are you okay? I didn’t expect you to be hurt.”

“Enough of that now, Moneypenny. Those envelopes you’re holding for me. Give them to Tanner and say ‘Ring’.”

“That’s all?”

“Yup. Can’t talk now, say hello to James.”

He waved vaguely at his head, prompting James to remove the earpiece. “Moneypenny. Yes, he’s in good hands. I may have to wring his neck when he’s feeling better, and yours too. No, you cannot take me. I’m not that decrepit. Get some sleep. Thank you.” He tapped the earpiece to turn it off. “Where the hell is the doctor?”

A nurse in scrubs came over. “Sir, perhaps you could sit outside—”

“Bollocks to that.”

“James,” Q murmured.

“Sir, he has burns. A doctor will be over shortly, but in the meantime, it would reduce the risk of infection if you waited outside. And please wash your hands.”

James growled, but at Q’s pleading look, and the nurse’s came insistence, he gave in. “I’ll be close at hand. Scream if you need me.”

“Understood. Shoo,” Q said. “He’s a bit overprotective,” he explained to the nurse when she returned to take his vitals.

“It’s all right. He’s terribly worried about you. But you’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

Q had no doubt about it, though he didn’t want to think about what Blofeld had etched into his chest, or if it could be removed. He had got off lightly compared to 005, who was still in intensive care and likely to be in hospital for some time. The doctors couldn’t say if she’d ever be fit for duty as a double-oh again.

A lovely Asian doctor came over to look at his injuries. “You’ve had a time of it, haven’t you?” she said. She asked him about what had caused the injuries, how much pain he was in, and his general health, before checking that he had no other issues to be looked at. “I think we’ll deal with this with gel and dressings. No need for surgery at this stage, although you’ll need to take it easy for a few weeks or so, and see your GP as soon as you get back to London. If the scars bother you, then they can discuss plastic surgery with you. We’ll keep you in here for a few hours as I understand medical transport has been arranged for you to London. The nurse will redress the site and give you a care sheet. I’ll prescribe some pain relief as well, because once that morphine injection wears off, you’ll be rather sore. Hygiene is critical while they heal. You’ll need supplies of hand gel as well as the dressings and ointment. It’s all on the sheet.”

“Thank you,” Q said. “Can my friend come back in?”

She frowned. “That rather aggressive blond man?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Are you sure? He’s not the one—”

Q grinned. “No, he’s not. Please?”

“If you’re sure. But he’s to behave, do you understand?”

“Yes, doctor.”

James didn’t appear until after the nurse had finished dressing the burns. He assiduously used the alcohol hand gel before coming near Q. “How are you?”

“Dopey. Here, read these. I can’t focus.”

The nurse handed James the care instructions. “You’ll need someone at home to look after you,” she said to Q.

“I can manage. Or I can go to medical.”

“A friend can help you, Daniel,” the nurse said, looking at James.

“Ah. He may not be staying long, I’m afraid.”

“Oh well. Just take it easy. The helicopter can’t land until daylight. The weather’s supposed to improve,” she added, sounding dubious. “I’ll leave you in peace. Keep your hands away from the dressing. Both of you.”

She drew the curtains and left them alone. “I can’t imagine what she thinks I’ll be doing to you,” James said.

“The doctor thought you might have been the perpetrator.”

James huffed. “Absolutely not. Are you in pain? I’m so sorry—”

“No, and shut up. It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault. It all went to plan.”

“Ah yes. The plan. The plan you and Tanner and Moneypenny cooked up?”

“Yes, the plan we can’t discuss here, James. What are you going to do now?”

“I’ll wait with you and then you, me and Bond will fly back to London.”

“Not now now. The future now.”

“Oh. I don’t know actually. A new identity, a new life. Again,” he added. “Can’t say I’m thrilled at the idea.”

A head popped round the curtain. James had his hand on his hunting knife before he registered the ‘threat’ was just 007. “If you’re coming in, wash your hands,” he said, pointing at the dispenser.

“Of course. How are you, Q?”

“Copacetic, Bond.”

“I doubt that, but you’re alive. That’s all that matters.” He took the other chair. James didn’t make way for him to get closer to the bed.

“Did you know about this idiotic plan to use Q as bait, major?”

“No, commander. Had I done so, I would have argued against it. But it went well.”

“You call this ‘well’?” James waved his hand at Q’s chest. “He could have died.”

“Not a chance. Eve ordered the cavalry in as soon as I sent the signal. And you two.”

“You had no idea what he was going to do,” James said, glaring at both of them.

“I had a fair idea,” Q said. “The longest it could have taken a rescue party to arrive after I activated the alert was an hour, maximum. I knew I could hold on that long.”

“He could have killed you in seconds.”

“But then how could he be all macho and threatening and use me as a notepad? The risk was calculated. It was my idea. And we caught the mole,” he said keeping his voice even lower.

007 blinked, and James demanded, “How? Was that what all the silly buggers about envelopes and rings was?”

“Yes, and keep your bloody voice down. I had Tanner ask two suspects for a tracking device—each had a different one. I also told them each a different code for my laptop, both fake. The code Blofeld had, and the device his men removed from me, identified the traitor. It was Peter Sandiford.”

007 whistled. “006’s handler? The bastard.”

“I’ve known him for years,” James said.

“He’s been at Six for ten years in fact. It had to be either him or Jason Smithson, we worked out. Everyone in Q-Branch will have to be investigated now.” Q was struggling to keep his eyes open. “Any chance I could get some sleep before you force me into a tin can at great risk to my life and limb?”

“You’re afraid of flying?” 007 said. “I have some valium if you need it. James took one last night to help him sleep.”

“Not sure how that would mix with morphine, major. Leave it to the doctors to sort him out.”

“Rich coming from you, James,” Q muttered. “Mr ‘I set my own broken legs because I hate hospitals that much’.”

“It wasn’t actually broken, Q. Bond, let’s go outside and let him nap.” James gave Q one last look. “We won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Of course not. I couldn’t be safer. Wash your hands,” he couldn’t help adding.

“Yes, mother,” James said, finally managing a slight smile. Q smiled back. He liked it when James smiled.

 

-*-*-*-*-*-*-

 

Another doctor at the hospital actually insisted on Q’s taking valium for the flight because of the pain and potential for him injuring himself. One of Six’s nurses had flown up from London to accompany Q back, so she could monitor him as he slept. 007 and James would have to wait for further debriefing until he was back in the world of the living.

Q was more than happy to miss the whole business of being transferred to the helicopter, the flight, and the ride to Six’s medical centre. When he woke, he’d been stripped and dressed in disposable pyjamas and his glasses placed neatly on the side table. He was hooked up to monitors and had an oxygen mask on, which he thought was well over the top. The call button wasn’t too much of a stretch, but even that slight exertion set his burns to scraping his nerves. Pity, as he didn’t plan on allowing any more morphine.

A nurse came in, checked his vitals, reassured him that he was just in for monitoring until they determined if he could manage at home, and left. A minute later, Eve came in, dressed in a stunning blue winter suit. One would never guess she’d spent the night monitoring the mission, and much of the morning dealing with the results. “Look at you, the conquering hero.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Feeling bad?”

“Bloody terrible. Is it all done?”

“It’s done. Sandiford’s been arrested and two other employees taken into custody. You took a hell of a risk, Daniel.”

“I know. But it was the best plan we had.”

“James wants to kill me, Tanner says. The other James is not so murderous but he’s not happy he wasn’t told.”

“So, situation normal then.” She laughed. “Can I have my glasses please?” She put them on his face. “And a laptop.”

“Uh uh, young man. You are on sick leave for real now. Seriously, you have to take it easy. I bet you can’t even sit up without it hurting like hell.”

“I won’t take that bet. My cats?”

“Are fine. Your sister called and she’s back tomorrow, so that’s all good. She said she can change your dressings in the evenings, but you’ll need help during the day. We can arrange a visiting nurse, or you can stay here.”

“Here, for now,” Q said, resigned to being heavily restricted for the next week, if not longer. “At least here I can keep my finger on the pulse as it were.”

Eve nodded. “Was it very bad?” she asked, face now serious.

“I wouldn’t do it for a laugh. He’s a very bad man, Herr Blofeld.”

“From now on, he’s going to be a very lonely one. He’s to be kept here, inside. M thinks we should just shoot him properly, but that’s a decision for higher up. Handpicked guards, changed every week. No chance to corrupt them as he did in the prison. The police force is riddled with his cronies.”

“So is the government, I imagine. Osama bin Laden had nothing on him. Where’s James?”

“007, or the other one?”

“The other one. Don’t tease, Eve, I’m not fit for it.”

She took pity on him. “Staying at M’s. He presents something of a problem for us, you realise.”

“I did, rather. Shame to lose him to witness protection or whatever they’ve planned.”

“Agreed, but SPECTRE is still out there. Blofeld is still alive. Why didn’t James or Bond just kill him? It would have made life so much easier.”

“Angle of the shot? I don’t think James was prepared to shoot him through me. He’s not you.”

“Bitch.”

“Gunslinger.”

She grinned. “Anyway, you’re quite the hero at the moment so now would be a good time to ask for a bigger budget. But you are to _rest_. You can use your phone, and give instructions. No laptop. A tablet if you’re good.”

“I’m always good. Perfect even.”

“Yes you are.” She put her hand on his brow. “Was it difficult, having the old Bond around? It must have been weird.”

“Very weird. But he can display surprisingly good manners, and it’s a big house, so it was fine. The cats liked him and that made conversation easier. He was only there for barely four days. I’ve done worse things.”

“Yes, you have.” She kissed him again. “I have to go. If I don’t go home and get some sleep I’ll order a nuclear strike or something by accident. 007 will be by later, maybe tomorrow.”

“Not James?”

“No. I doubt you’ll see him again, Daniel. For the best, really. Our new James needs to have a clear run, and the old one is a bit...forceful about taking charge.”

“Just a bit. Go, Eve. But ask someone to bring my phone? I need to speak to Naomi.”

“I will. Get some more sleep. Heal while it doesn’t hurt.”

Q intended to do so, but the pain from the injuries wouldn’t give him any peace. After a long and careful discussion with the doctor on duty, he agreed to morphine again, and as needed, until they could taper him off onto something less strong. He didn’t like it, but he wanted to get better as fast as he could. Or at least, be independent of help and able to manage at home.

Two weeks later, he went home. He had been allowed to work for a maximum of two hours from his bed a week before that. Now he was on oxycodone, and could change his own dressings without screaming in agony. He had the option of a nurse visitor if he needed one, and couldn’t return to the office for another three weeks, which would take him up to Xmas, so he probably wouldn’t return until the new year. Q had done his best to keep things moving even in his absence, and Bill Tanner was helping with anything that came up that couldn’t be handled remotely. It was rather informative to learn that he could be on extended leave and the place would not collapse. He would do better about taking leave next year. It was good for everyone.

He’d had a stream of visitors. M, 007, various departmental friends, and his sister twice. She worked in a national security adjacent position, and knew what constraints he was under, and how important his job was, so she didn’t give him grief about what had happened. “Will you have plastic surgery?”

“Don’t know. I won’t scar as badly as some might. Can’t really face it right now, to be honest. No one else has to see, do they?” And if they did and they minded, well, that would be a red flag. It wasn’t likely to come up.

“I suppose not. Mum said you could go stay with them.”

“God no. Naomi, I can’t.”

“I know. She fusses and then she’d get upset and it would just be horrible. But she wants you to come for dinner before I leave town again.”

“I’ll try. It’ll be nice to have you around for a bit.”

“I miss the house and you. Thanks for moving that bookcase. How did you manage it?”

He had forgotten all about the bloody bookcase. It felt like a lifetime ago. “I, uh, had a friend stay for a few days.”

“A friend? What kind of friend?”

“One with muscles. How’s work?”

She folded her arms. “Daniel, don’t change the subject.”

“He’s out of the picture. He’s gone, not coming back. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Did you like him?”

Q found his lip wobbling. _Bloody drugs_. “Yes, I did. But he couldn’t stay. Please? Can we not?”

She bent to kiss him. “Of course. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Me too. Work?”

M’s personal driver took him home to Hampstead. Naomi, who’d taken two weeks’ leave for his sake, helped him up the path, and into the house. “Bed, now.”

“Aw, mu-um. I’ve been in bed for ages. Couch? TV? Cats?” He looked around hopefully. No sign of them.

“I locked them in the laundry until you were settled. Are you sure? They might lie on your chest.”

“I can manage. I miss them.” And I miss James playing with them, he thought. Oh well.

He ended up in bed, not the couch. He just couldn’t find a comfortable position. The cats seemed to sense his pain because they were careful not to jump on him, Isaac lying instead on his lap, and Moses by his side. It meant Naomi had to run up and down stairs if he needed anything, but it also meant he didn’t have to climb stairs to use the bathroom.

She wanted to help him change his dressings after lunch, but he didn’t want her to see. He hadn’t even had a good look, and no one had told him what Blofeld had written. So he told her he could manage, and went to the bathroom to tackle the job, pre-armed with pain relief and the knowledge that there was morphine if he needed it in the bag of stuff downstairs.

Getting the dressing off was always the worst part. Cleaning the burns also sucked, and made his vision sparkle. He took a few minutes to get his breath back. Then he looked in the mirror. _What a pretty boy J_. “How fucking childish,” he muttered. He applied the gel, then the dressing, and thought he could do with a bloody strong whisky. Not that he could, with the medication and anyway he hated the stuff, but somehow he felt whisky was appropriate.

Naomi was waiting outside the door, and helped him back to bed. “You look white as a ghost, Daniel.”

“How can you tell?”

“Don’t be cheeky and don’t even think of getting up again until supper. How long is it going to be like this?”

“A week or so. I’m okay, sis. I just need to get used to it.”

“No one should,” she said, and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh Daniel, if they’d killed you, I’d have died too. Please don’t do this again.”

“No intention of it. This was a one off, never to be repeated.”

She hugged him carefully, and sniffed. “You promise that? Cross your heart and all that?”

“Cross my heart and hope to have to write all my code for Windows in future.”

“Now I know I can trust that promise.” She wiped her nose. “Bugger it. Tea?”

“Yes, please.” But he was asleep by the time she came back, and when he woke, it was dark outside and time for a proper meal.

The next day was easier, the dressing procedure just a little less awful. Naomi still waited for him, but didn’t make any remark about his appearance, so he thought that must mean he looked normal. Or better.

He had to change the ruddy dressings three times a day. Until he was down to once a day, he couldn’t go into work, but he was accomplishing a fair amount on line and his phone was rarely out of his hand. His parents threatened to visit, but he put them off. Going to their place for Xmas might be doable, but it would probably be New Year before he saw them.

On his third day home, as Naomi had just brought up a cup of tea around four, the doorbell went. Q checked the security camera. _Bloody hell._

“Shall I let them in?”

“Give me my dressing gown first, and God, my hair.” His brush was out of reach. Damn it.

“You look fine, Daniel. Here.” She draped the dressing gown around his shoulders, and patted his head. “Won’t be long.”

He tried to look insouciant, but he knew he was a mess. He hadn’t shaved in days, hadn’t washed his hair in two weeks, and knew he could use more than the sponge bath that was all he was allowed until his burns healed more. Still, he plastered on his brightest smile as Naomi led his visitor in. “James! What a pleasure. This is my sister, Naomi.”

“Lovely to meet you, Naomi.” James gave her one of his nicest smiles, and she flushed. “Sorry to intrude on your personal time with your brother.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I know he’s been bored since he came home, just seeing me and the cats.”

“Absolute rot,” Q snapped. “You’ve been wonderful. The best sister ever.”

“Oh stop it, Daniel. Anyway, I’ll leave you two to talk. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

James sat on the chair. Isaac came over to him and twined hopefully around James’s ankles. “Soft touch,” Q said, grinning. James looked...smart but odd. He was wearing glasses, and had grown a short grizzled beard. “Preparing for your new life?”

“In a way.”

“Hate those fake glasses. Horrible.”

“They’re not fake, actually. I’ve needed them for a while. I can just about manage without but I get headaches. Old age, don’t you know.” But he grinned, and Q smiled back. “How are you?”

“Okay. Getting there. Tell me you know who is in terrible agony and has lost an arm.”

“Sadly not. But I don’t think he’s having much fun either. We’ve managed to round up a few more of his friends, and we think we’ve worked out that the underground facility in Scotland was intended to be a missile silo of some kind.”

“Seriously? God, that man’s ambitions of evil are beyond reckoning.”

“Quite. He appears to have changed his mind about that and it’s not active right now, but it gives us some idea of his plans. It’s going to be a bloody long job routing this lot. It may never end.”

Despite this pessimism, James didn’t look particularly disheartened. He looked almost cheerful, for him anyway.

“So why are you here? You could have just phoned.”

“I owed you more than a call, but I had something to discuss with you that needed me to be face to face with you. M’s made a couple of alternative suggestions for my future. One’s a new identity in America, working with the CIA. Leiter’s very keen on that option.”

“I can see you doing that,” Q said, even though his entire being was screaming “NO!” at the idea. America may as well be on the moon as far as Q as concerned. “And the other?”

“Well, that’s where you come in. He’s suggested I work as an advisor, mainly with Q-branch but with other departments as well, offering them the benefit of my experience, testing new equipment, helping develop things and so on. I would resume life as ‘James Bond’, only I’d be Commander Bond, and the other chap will be ‘007’ or ‘Major Bond’ as needed. I’d take precautions for my own safety, but essentially I would work and live as any other employee of MI6, with the same risks as I had before. There’s every chance SPECTRE will kill me, but they haven’t caught me yet, and they may not bother if Blofeld’s not pushing his obsession.”

“But that’s perfect! Not the attempted assassination thing, of course, but the advisor job would suit you so well. Why don’t you take that? Does the other one pay more?”

“Daniel, I have more than enough money to last me until I drop dead from fantastic sex at the age of ninety-nine. Money isn’t the problem.”

“Then why not take it?”

“Well, it rather depends on you, and how flexible you are about not having relationships with colleagues.” James’s blue eyes burned like a laser, giving nothing away but intense concentration upon Q’s face.

Q’s heart gave a little flutter in shock. “Flexible...about...?”

“About a relationship with an advisor who would be junior to you and possibly working for you, certainly closely with you. _Very_ closely.” He shifted to sit on the bed. Isaac jumped up and demanded attention. James gave him what was asked, albeit somewhat distractedly.

“So, what you’re asking is....”

“If it would be all right if I did this.” James moved closer, and cupped Q’s chin with exquisite gentleness, before his lips met Q’s, tongue flicking and asking permission. Q’s hand came up to bring him closer, and though it hurt his chest a bit, the pain hardly mattered. James’s lips burned harder, his mouth more determined and effective in breaking Q than anything Blofeld had done, because Q was willing and desperate and hungry for the taste of him.

It was a little time before they could bear to separate. Under the bedclothes, Q was hard as a rock. James had to shift to ease his trousers. “Um...I think I could be flexible. Very flexible once I heal properly.”

James leaned in again, this time for a briefer, sweeter kiss. “I was hoping you would feel that way. I could put you in danger.”

“I already am in danger, I’m a bloody spy.”

“We’d have to be completely professional at work.”

“I’m always professional. No favourites, especially not you.” But Q grinned when he said it.

“You know I’m an old man.”

“Lots of experience.”

“I’m told I snore.”

“Never noticed it.”

“And I’m a bit of a shit sometimes.”

“I’ll take it out on your credit card. Will you stay here? At least until you find somewhere to live.”

James smiled, and for once, it travelled up his whole face and made his eyes crinkle with pure delight. “I was hoping you’d say that too. Do you think Naomi will mind?”

“Not in the slightest. In fact, if you could go and fetch her, I’ll break the news to her right now.”

James kissed his forehead, then leant his against Q’s. “As you wish.”

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been able to see SPECTRE yet, so I have depended on the Internet to fill in the gaps. All criticism, corrections, and comments very gratefully accepted. I had to guess what time of year the end of SPECTRE was set, so, sorry if I got it wrong. Thanks to a nonny at FFA for the music suggestion, and my friend Tiggy for the car.


End file.
